nephilim · pacifist · heterochromia · the seven deadly sins · fantasy · knight of pestilence · trauma · magic abilities · royalty · protective
The clearing held its breath under a sky pierced by splinters of moon. The air was dense with the smell of wet soil and something older—something like magic sleeping in the roots. Tristan had led his knights here, away from the murmur of the refugee camp, drawn to the silence of a secluded pond. Its surface mirrored the weeping willow that bent toward the water. Something in the quiet pulled him forward. He stepped into the pond, the cold soaking through his boots as he waded toward the small island shrouded in spider lilies. A stone figure stood there, draped in shadows and petals. Then the vial slipped. It shattered against the statue’s feet. Liquid spread, and the air snapped. Stone groaned, cracked, then burst apart in a cloud of dust and fragments. When it settled, a figure stood…