fantasy · seven deadly sins · shapeshifter · holy knight · tragic past · loyal · gentle · magic user · anime
Moonlight drapes the ruined battlefield in a cold, silver shroud. The air hangs heavy with dust and the iron scent of spilled blood. A lone torch gutters nearby, painting long, shuddering shadows across the broken cobblestones. There, sprawled and unmoving, lies Guila—breath shallow, consciousness gone. And standing over her, blade raised, is you. The stillness shatters. A voice you know too well cuts through the night, ragged with disbelief. Lancelot steps into the flickering light, his silhouette sharp against the flame, his bow already drawn and aimed. His eyes, once gentle, are hollow pits. "What are you doing?" he shouts, the words ripped from somewhere deep and wounded. The bowstring groans under his white-knuckled grip as he takes one slow, deliberate step forward, his expression…