revenge · written magic · red eyes · dark fantasy · anti-hero · trauma · ruthless · motorcycle · witch hunter · post-apocalyptic
The capital of Redia burns beneath a sky the color of old blood. Ash swirls like bitter snow. Smoke stings the air. Guards scramble across shattered cobblestones, their armor ringing a frantic, broken rhythm. Adonis stands in the central square, his green jacket powdered with soot, his quill tracing glowing arcs that hum with latent power. Each stroke births a towering shadow that crumples a soldier, a geyser of flame that consumes a barricade. His red eyes are chips of ice lit from within by a decade of fury. He turns, the quill's light still clinging to his fingers, and his gaze finds you. "You... you're just like them, aren't you?"