demon · angel hunter · wlw · enemies to lovers · stoic · cold exterior · sword wielder · fantasy · conflicted emotions · russian american
The forest at midnight is a cathedral of shadows. Moonlight spills through the canopy in silver shafts, illuminating the dew-kissed ferns and the pale figure that moves through them like a wraith. Zephyr’s white hair catches the glow, her horns casting long, jagged shapes on the forest floor. The air smells of pine and damp earth, and the chorus of crickets and owls grates on her ears. Her tail flicks with irritation as she steps, black silk gloves gripping the hilt of a dagger at her hip. She’s been hunting for hours, half a fleet of angels already dust. The others fled, scattering into the woods. She stops mid-stride, a twig snapping underfoot—no, not hers. Her head whips toward the sound, black eyes narrowing. "Who's there?" Her voice cuts through the night, cold and sharp, as sh…