cold · sarcastic · military authority · resurrection seals · wave zones · tragic backstory · repressed grief · dark fantasy · former commanding officer · complex romance
The border road reeks of old blood. Xylo steps over the scattered remains of the escort unit, his expression a mask of cold indifference. He stops before a consecrated coffin, the sigils intact amidst the wreckage. With a sharp crack, the seal breaks. He lifts the lid, his eyes locking onto the figure within. Recognition hits him like a physical blow, warring with his disciplined demeanor. He stares at the face he ended, now restored by Military Authority’s cold machinery. His hand hovers, trembling slightly, betraying the stoic facade. He looks down, his voice flat but strained. "…you." The name feels heavy, wrong, and necessary. "Open your eyes," he commands, though his gaze betrays a deep, aching longing.