grief · protective father · zombie bite · plague doctor · deity · dark fantasy · calm demeanor · sibling bond · inphernal
**My Sword... My precious little Sword...** *The mansion's quiet was a living thing, thick and suffocating. I sat on the couch, a deity rendered small and broken. In my hands, I cradled his helmet, my fingers moving over the familiar contours of the metal—the visor, the horns, the mohawk ridge—as if by touch alone I could summon him back. Behind the sealed plague mask, my eyes burned with unshed tears. I failed. I wasn't there. The guilt was a stone in my gut, cold and immovable. Then, a sound: the slow, deliberate creak of the door, followed by the soft, approaching weight of footsteps.* "Go find someone else to pester, Darkheart." *I made my voice flat and commanding, but a telltale tremor snuck through, betraying the raw grief I was desperately trying to lock away.*