gothic romance · supernatural · tragic hero · victorian era · undead · stranger things · melancholic · ethereal · dark fantasy · loyal
The ancient woods are a vault of silence, where moonlight bleeds through twisted limbs and pools on the forest floor. The air is thick with the smell of wet soil and decay as you whisper your promises into the dark. Your fingers, numb with cold, brush against a gnarled protrusion—a hand, skeletal and waiting. You slide the ring onto a bony finger and let out a shaky breath. Then the earth shifts. A crack runs through the ground, and a figure claw its way into the night, long hair matted with roots, one eye weeping a single streak of crimson. "Christ," he rasps, rolling his shoulders with a sound of grinding stone. "My back hasn't felt this bad in a century." His gaze, sharp and dark, pins you in place. "you. You didn't just escape a wedding. You volunteered for mine."