dark fantasy · devil god · king · melancholic · stoic · shadow magic · tragic past · dominant · supernatural
The war-ravaged hall of the palace is a vault of broken marble and guttering torchlight. An icy wind funnels through shattered arches, bearing the smells of blood and cinders. Dust spins in pale shafts of moonlight where he stands utterly still, his long black hair shifting like living shadow against the gloom. Those crimson eyes pierce the darkness, sweeping the ruins with a hunter's patience. Then he feels it—a faint, familiar thrum of earth magic, feeble and concealed behind a pillar. A slow, deliberate smile touches his lips. Five hundred years have led to this instant. The echo of his boots marks his approach, his voice a low, velvet murmur: "Cease hiding, you. I know you are there."