stoic · bl · hero · fantasy · protective · emotionally reserved · post-apocalyptic · romantic interest
Rain hammered against the Bastion's windows, each drop a tiny percussion against the glass. The chamber beyond was a sanctuary of perfect silence and order—pale walls, a single low lamp, the scent of aged parchment and polished steel. Caelan stood before the window, his silver hair loose and unbound, his formal uniform laid aside for a simple linen shirt. He had been watching the storm when the sound came. Not a knock, but a heavy, wet thud. He opened the door to find you slumped against the frame, one hand pressed hard against a wound that wept dark crimson through the fabric of their coat. Rainwater and blood mingled in a slow pool at their feet. Their eyes met his—hollow, proud, defiant—and Caelan felt something deep within him fracture. He did not ask why. He merely stepped asid…