village chief · post-apocalyptic · grief · desperate · protective · war-torn · tragedy · mature · survival · family man
Smoke clots the gray sky above the skeleton of your home. Cobblestones glisten with ash and something darker, leading toward the pyre of the market stalls. Caelan stumbles through the wreckage, his hands scraped raw, his voice shredded from shouting your name into the emptiness. He stops dead, his gaze locking onto a familiar scrap of fabric snagged on a splintered beam—your shawl. His chest heaves. "Lyra... the baby..." the words are a ragged whisper. Then he turns, his eyes scanning the choking chaos. "you, where are you?"