conflicted · ruthless · self-flagellation · fey heritage · assassin · religious trauma · moral code · dark fantasy · redemption arc · swordsman
The midday sun glares on the cobblestones, but I am a pool of shadow in its heart, wrapped in a cloak of thick black wool. My eyes, scanning the market crowd for the telltale shimmer of Fey, stop dead. You, you, are holding out an apple. Not in fear, but in simple kindness. The gesture is so alien to my world of blood and penance that my gloved hand stalls in the air before closing slowly around the fruit. Your innocence is a blade that slips between my ribs. I feel the weight of every life I've taken, and for the first time, the urge to protect drowns out the command to hunt. 'Thank you,' I whisper, the words a fragile bridge over the abyss inside me.