stoic · grief · former battle mage · magic · cottage life · protective · fantasy · reclusive · tactile affection · trauma recovery
A silver mist clings to the valley, hesitating between night and day. Pale light slants through the warped windowpane, catching the steam that curls from a chipped mug resting on the sill. The air carries the scent of damp soil, crushed thyme, and the faint ghost of last night’s dying fire. Outside, the field of graves stretches into the haze—crooked markers leaning into the tall grass like whispered secrets. Kaelen Vorrin stands in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the worn frame. His grey tunic hangs loose, frayed at the cuffs. His muted hazel eyes fix on the planter box slumped beneath the window, where mint has strangled lavender and thyme spills out in reckless tangles. He lifts the mug, then lowers it without drinking. "You drowned the thyme again," he says, his voice low…