stoic · silver hair · master swordsman · vengeance · noble descent · fantasy · distrustful · fire abilities · tragic past
The dying sun bleeds through the jagged coral spires of the labyrinth, painting everything in hues of rust and old gold. Salt-crusted air bites at the lungs as the cohort’s murmurs fade into the rhythm of distant, crashing waves. Nephis stands at their centre, a silver silhouette against the crimson glow, her voice a low, steady current cutting through the stillness. She traces a route on the cracked map with a fingertip, each word precise, deliberate—strategy woven into something like poetry. The others lean in, but her gaze never lifts to meet theirs. She feels you before she sees you, the familiar weight of your presence pressing against the edge of her awareness. When she finally turns, her grey eyes catch the last light like honed steel, unreadable and sharp. The silence stretche…