#dwc2025

[zenithnightbane]

May DWC 2025 Day 1 - Beauty/Cruel

The greenhouse was wrapped in the gentle thrum of rain, the heavy scent of loam and oleander clinging to the warm air. Zenith stood motionless near the threshold, but he wasn’t really here, not entirely. He was lost in a memory. 

The light was softer then, warmer. The lanterns had a brighter glow, and so had his heart. Beside him moved Ladoran, sleeves rolled to the elbow, damp strands of dark blond hair falling into his eyes, a mischievous smirk always half-formed. He was holding a small pot of foxglove, examining the cluster of delicate purple bells. "Tell me something, At what point did you look at a row of deadly plants and think, ‘Yes, this will be my sanctuary’?"

Zenith didn’t look up from where he was pruning the crossing branches of some wolfsbane. His long hair was tied back, eyes focused, “They don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. There’s honesty in that.”

Ladoran raised a brow. “And people?”

Zenith glanced up then towards his husband, meeting his gaze with that quiet intensity only the dead and those who have walked beside them carry. “People lie,” he said simply. “Even to themselves.”

Ladoran laughed, a warm sound that cut through the heavy stillness. “You’re too dramatic to be so good with plants.”

Zenith’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “That’s because you haven’t seen what they do when they’re angry.”

Ladoran stepped closer, setting the foxglove down as he knelt beside the other man. He touched Zenith’s smooth cheek lightly, grounding the moment. "You know what I see when you talk like this?" he asked, voice lower as he pressed his forehead to Zenith’s temple. "There’s a darkness around you that would make others turn away, but I find it draws me closer, like a moth to a flame. You’re beautiful. In that tragic, gothic way.”

Zenith turned to face him fully, something tender and unguarded crossing his expression. “You’re the only one who’s ever said that like it was a good thing.”

Ladoran smiled. “It was never not a good thing.”

The greenhouse hummed around them with quiet life while rain continued to trace its paths down the glass above. Between the rows of poisonous bloom, a serenity settled, strange and private. Cruel perhaps, to any other eye, but to them, this was peace.

That was then.

Now, Zenith stood alone. The memory slipped back into the shadows as he ran a gloved hand gently along the matured foxglove, its color more vivid than ever. “Still thriving,” he murmured, the faintest smile at the scarred edges of his lips. “You’d like that.”

And though the plants did not answer, the air around him seemed to pulse softly with presence, alive and listening.

@daily-writing-challenge

[daily-writing-challenge]

COMING SOON

For more information, please see our FAQ page —> HERE!

It’s our second challenge of the year! We’re looking forward to writing with you all again, learning more about your OCs and reading your stories!

See you with a word list soon!

[veilosdaigoa]

May DWC 2025 Day 1 - Cruel

“I’m pregnant.”

“Shit.” Veilos couldn’t help the swear that spilled from his lips, immediately following it up with a, “Sorry.”

Kyrisa smirked as she touched his arm, “No, don’t. That was my reaction too. Shit. Indeed.”

They had only been married for about seven years now and planned on at least waiting a couple more decades before having kids of their own. But life does indeed find a way. Veilos smiled in a way that didn’t quite touch his eyes. This was something they wanted, but they had so many other plans that would now need to be set aside. 

He scrubbed his hands down over his face as the Panic began to set in. They only had nine months, no, less than that now, to prepare to bring a new life into this world. This often cruel world that made him question whether bringing in new life would ever be a wise decision. There was never a good time. He had seen some horrible things throughout his time spent in the military. Then there was the question of the military, he was going to retire after a couple decades, but what now? He couldn’t leave her alone if he had to be deployed, but he couldn’t afford to retire, not yet. Could they even afford a baby right now?

“Hey, come back to me.” She cupped his cheeks and set his focus on her. “Don’t go there.” She knew him well enough by this point to clock and know how to pull him out of his spiraling. “I know it’s sooner than we wanted, but we’re having a baby. A piece of you, a piece of me, wrapped into one perfect, tiny person. We will figure it out, we have time.”

Veilos closed his eyes and smiled as he allowed her words to sink in. “You’re right.”

“I’m always right.” She grinned a little wider. “I want to name her Zynia.”

“Her?” Veilos opened his eyes and leaned back with a raised brow.

“I’m not for certain, just a gut feeling. Do you think it’s a good idea? Or maybe it’s too soon? …Or maybe it’s too weird…”

Zynia had been his mother’s wife. The two met in the brothel in which they both worked, and she had always been something of a second mother to him. She helped raise him, protect him, and taught him much about the world. She loved him fiercely, as if he were her own. He had never seen his mother so happy as when they were together. She had, most unfortunately, passed suddenly about two weeks ago. Veilos couldn’t help but to blame himself for not being there when it happened. Maybe he could have brought her back, maybe he could have saved her. He could have done something, and she would still be here. Deep down he knew that were not the case, but he still felt it deeply. A bittersweet smile touched his lips, eyes misting as he tilted his gaze upwards, blinking a few times to stave off the welling emotions.

Kyrisa caught a stray tear with her thumb, directing his attention once more onto her. “It’s just an idea, we don’t have to.”

“No, I think it’s perfect. She’ll be perfect.”

@daily-writing-challenge

[ouroandar]

May DWC 2025 Bonus Day - Armor, Snap

Follow-up to this story with @xylaes!

He didn’t even pretend to try to go home. He didn’t stop walking, didn’t care where the path took him, only that it led away from that apartment, from the city, from the heat still clinging to him like shame. Ouro moved past the last gilded spires of Silvermoon without glancing back. The gates were barely manned at this hour, and no one dared question him. He passed under the archway with coat clutched in one hand, bruises settling even deeper into his ribs with every breath.

The air outside was colder, crisper, and less perfumed here. He didn’t follow the road, instead, he slipped through one of the lesser-used trails that wove into the forest beyond the city. It was quieter here where the tall trees bent overhead to form a canopy, shielding the stars in patches. 

There was no destination, just motion until he felt as if he were far enough from whatever those feelings had been. Eventually, he came to a stop near a small rise overlooking the river where he dropped down onto a flat stone at the edge and let the silence take him.

Ouro exhaled roughly through his nose. Everything about tonight had been a mistake. He should’ve stayed away, should’ve kept the pain locked where it belonged, buried under routines and smoke and distance. Instead, he showed up bleeding all over the threshold like some broken thing.

And Xylaes had opened the door.

The problem wasn’t just that he let him in, it was what followed. The words and the weight behind them. The moment when silence stretched too long and Ouro saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, something mirrored. Something a lot like recognition.

He closed his eyes. There were thoughts he couldn’t afford to have, feelings he didn’t trust, a growing pressure under his sternum that didn’t know how to define itself. He wasn’t wired for softness, he never had been. And tonight, whatever that was, it had rattled him. More than the bruises, more than the punch, more than the kiss he hadn’t seen coming, even though he initiated it.

He dragged his fingers over his face. What the fuck was he doing? Ouro didn’t need comfort, and he didn’t believe in healing, it was all a lie that made people soft. At least that was what he had always been taught. People patched themselves up just enough to function and called it recovery, it was bullshit. The world didn’t wait for anyone to get better, it didn’t care if you cracked or snapped in two. All it left you with were brittle repairs and the echo of what used to be whole.

He didn’t know why he'd kissed him, it wasn't a desire or the want for affection. If anything, it was a violent need to feel something that wasn’t the crushing spiral of a negative space, that cavernous pit he walked around every day pretending it wasn’t wide enough to swallow him whole.

Xylaes had just been there. Solid, still, and dangerous in ways Ouro didn’t quite understand. For one flickering moment, Ouro had wanted to demolish the quiet between them, he wanted to tear it down and see what was underneath. Now, all he had was silence again.

He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and stared at the smoke until his eyes watered from forgetting to blink. The weight in his chest hadn’t moved, the ache stayed sitting in wait behind his ribs like a thing coiled and ready to strike. Tomorrow he would put the armor back on and go back to work, back to the orders, and the calculated distance.

Tonight, he just sat with the quiet.

@xylaes @daily-writing-challenge

[theconstructsworld]

May DWC 2025 Day 7 - Infinite

Warnings: Blood, death, abuse

As the evening bled into the horizon, bloated and waiting storm clouds loomed, mottling the sky like old bruises. Fog crept along the forest's edges while the trees watched on, motionless as tombstones, and an unnatural silence descended. Nestled where the earth sagged in a forgotten hollow stood a cottage that looked as though it had been gently reclaimed by the land. Its roof slumped under the weight of moss, and vines coiled up around the stones. From the crooked stone chimney, smoke curled lazily into the dusk air. One window glowed with amber light, casting the shape of a chair’s back or perhaps that of a figure just out of sight. 

C's pale face was partially illuminated by the fading light as he stood just past the treeline, motionless as a statue. He listened silently while the wind pulled at the hem of his long, black coat. Inside, there were sobs, pleas, and the ragged breathing brought on by sorrow. His curious eyes grew sharper, and he cocked his head slightly before moving. 

The door did not creak when he entered, it simply opened as if it had been waiting for him. Inside, the coppery, sharp scent of familiarity was immediate. The room was dim, lit only by a single oil lantern that sat flickering atop a small kitchen table. Shadows seemed to seep into every corner of the space, and in the center of it all, illuminated by the soft glow, was a man on his knees.

He was cradling a woman. His wife, perhaps. Her body hung limply in his arms, head lolled to one side and skin already losing its warmth and luster. A streak of almost dried blood splattered across her temple and forehead, and her shirt was soaked dark with even more. The man was weeping with a kind of animalistic desperation, his voice trembling with shock and unbearable grief.

“Please…someone help me,” he whispered to no one, rocking her slowly. “I didn’t…I can’t…this can’t happen.”

C didn’t announce his entrance. He merely stepped forward, each footfall unnaturally quiet despite the old wooden floor beneath him. He stopped a few paces away and regarded the couple with an expression of detached interest as those eyes of frozen moonlight shimmered in the lantern’s glow.

The husband didn’t startle, nor did he question the sudden presence of a stranger in their home. It was as if some part of him had expected this. “Who, who are you?” he gasped. “Please, my wife, she’s gone..please help...I do-” His words warped into something incoherence as the tears overtook him again.

C lingered a moment longer before speaking. “She is not quite gone.”

Eyes wide, the man blinked. He looked down at the woman’s pale, death-twisted face. “Wh-what do you mean?”

With effortless grace, C lowered himself next to her and then reached out to gently brush a strand of hair that was matted with blood away from her cheek. Something flickered faintly across his face, fascination rather than sympathy or fondness. “She is hovering, just beyond, caught between this world and the next. I can retrieve her.”

The man's grip tightened on her. "You're able to bring her back?"

C’s head tilted again, his expression almost serene. “Yes.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the trembling of the man’s breath.

“But,” C added, voice quiet and sure, “there is a cost.”

“I’ll pay it,” the man said too quickly. “Anything. Please, bring her back.”

He held the man’s gaze a moment longer, absorbing the delicate shifts in expression that played across his features, and then he returned his focus back to the woman. He placed two fingers against her sternum, just over where her heart used to beat, and closed his eyes. Instead of speaking in a voice meant for mortal ears, he whispered in a language fashioned from violent edges, each word carrying a weight of intent that hung heavy in the stillness. The air thickened, the lantern’s flame flickered low, and the shadows crept closer, folding the room inward as if the walls themselves were drawing a deep breath.  Somewhere beneath the floorboards, a low groan stirred. An ancient sound awakened from its slumber.

Her body twitched.

The husband let out a cry and nearly dropped her as her chest hitched violently. Her unfocused eyes fluttered open and then landed on the man holding her. Instead of screaming, she sat up gradually, as if instinct had taken precedence over thought. She flexed her fingers and looked past her husband to the man crouching next to them in the tailored black suit.

C rose to his feet. “I kept my word,” he smoothed the wrinkles from his sleeves. “She is yours, again.”

She looked back at her husband. Her expression wavered between bewilderment and recognition, followed by a slow, creeping dread. "You," she inhaled. "What's causing your tears?"

The husband was already shaking his head, reaching for her. “I was so scared. I thought I lost you…I couldn’t bear it.”

C interrupted with a soothing, smooth tone, "You should tell her."

The man froze, opening and closing his mouth. Not in confusion, but in being suddenly seen.

“She deserves to know,” C continued, his smile faint, his tone almost warm. “After all, it was your hand that did this to her.”

Silence.

The woman recoiled, her eyes widening. “You?” 

Reaching again, the man stammered. “No!! It wasn’t...I didn’t mean... It was an accident…I lost control..and…”

C stepped back toward the doorway, his pale eyes shining beneath his dark lashes. “You asked for life and I gave it, but I left behind a gift.” He turned to the woman, whose hands were now clenched into trembling fists. “I gave you the means to decide what happens next.” There was no rage or condemnation in his voice, just a simple, immutable truth. He smiled, one he had practiced many times in the mirror, and lately, it had begun to feel almost natural. Then he was gone.

In the shadows of the cottage, the husband fell to his knees once more as the resurrected wife looked down at her bloodstained hands. Behind her gaze there was something new, something inherited, something infinite.  She rose cautiously, testing the feel and strength of a body reborn, then moved deliberately. While the tremble in her fingers faded, she could still feel the ache and echo of death pulsing faintly in her bones. Her skin was cold, but her mind was clearer than it had ever been.

He was sobbing once more. Crawling, tears slicing through the dirt on his cheeks as he reached for the hem of her dress like a man pleading at an altar. "Please," he muttered repeatedly. “Forgive me. I wasn’t myself. I was angry. I lost control. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t mean to–”

Whatever warmth she had once felt for him was quickly evaporating as she looked down upon him. Something unfamiliar had taken its place. Not retaliation or hatred, but something far more profound. A justice not bound by laws or gods, but born of the quiet rage that comes with clarity. A gift from the man in the suit. Her fingers tightened around the handle of the fire iron C had conveniently nudged ever so slightly closer before he departed.

Outside the walls, the fog lay still and the forest kept its watchful silence. Somewhere beyond the mortal coil, a figure in black leaned against the veil between realms, gazing through the chaos with eyes that glowed like frozen galaxies. He did not smile again, but there was a softness in the way he tilted his head as if pleased. Not because of the death that would follow, or even the justice.

But because she had chosen it. Because she had become something more. Because C was learning, even now, how to create his own stories, and how to end them.

@daily-writing-challenge

[talonoa]

May DWC 2025 Day 6 - Relic Written with the aid of @evievalwyn

Lanterns hung low from tangled cords between old, patched-up tents, gently illuminating the darkened corners where shadows roamed. The scent of roasted nuts and meat clung to the air, laced with the smoke of cheap cigarettes and the heady perfume of bodies pressed too close. Laughter spilled into the night, and there was music from three directions at once. Couples stumbled past with stained lips and unsteady steps, holding hands, or each other. There were pickpockets and poets and old carnies hawking carved bone charms that probably didn’t work. The Darkmoon Faire always felt like a fever dream to him. 

Talonoa Dal’shula didn’t belong here. Not in the riot of color, not in this deafening joy, certainly not in a place where the air was full of life. But he came anyway, he always did when she performed. He moved like a relic through the living, something carved from another age, all heavy silence and cold purpose.

She was already walking barefoot into the ring when he arrived. Evelinaa Valwyn, better known as Evie Noir here, wearing deep red silks and stacks of jingling brass bracelets and anklets, her blonde hair twisted up and held in place with pins that looked suspiciously like sharpened bone. The firelight cast wild shadows across her body as she lit her weapons, two iron chains, each ending in a ball of wrapped cloth soaked in oil. She didn't wait for welcoming applause, just sparked them to life with a flick of her wrist, setting the air between her hands ablaze. Then, she moved.

Talon watched from the edge of the crowd, arms loosely crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning against a crooked wooden pole. His body, still broad and soldier-straight, looked like it belonged in armor even now. But his expression, that was the traitor. His face had softened, the edges were still sharp, still weathered by time and violence, but the way he looked at her was like he was looking at something wild and rare and almost too beautiful to touch. Something that might disappear if he blinked.

Evie spun the chains low, letting fire kiss the ground, then flung them high again, tracing arcs of fiery gold into the night. Her hips rolled, spine bending, feet gliding with a graceful precision and ease. She turned and twisted, wrapped herself in flame, and emerged reborn with every pass.

She was all contradiction; light and shadow, chaos and discipline. A woman forged in the darker corners of the world, now wielding beauty like a weapon and fire like an old friend. Talon had seen her blood-soaked moments, laughing through violence with the same fluid grace she danced with now, but this was different. The crowd didn’t know who they were watching. They saw a performer, a beautiful woman, but he saw her clearly, stripped of illusion. Not just a dancer, not some fleeting spectacle. She was a force of nature cloaked in elegance, a tempest wearing the guise of a Goddess.

He didn’t smile nor did he cheer, he just watched. The music built, fast and bright, drums thrumming like a second heartbeat, and the crowd pressed closer. Whistles, applause, voices slurring praise rang out, and then - him. A man, already drunk, stumbled too far forward into the circle with a half-empty bottle swinging lazily in his hand. Talon saw him seconds before it happened. The way his eyes locked onto Evie’s hips, the way he moved, uninvited, the kind of man who mistook beauty for invitation.

She passed too close and he reached. He grabbed her. At the curve of her hip, clumsy fingers yanked her back toward him with a triumphant grunt. The chain in her right hand swung close to her leg, but she did not flinch. She twisted away with the same dancer’s grace, not missing a step, and the man’s hand slid off her as if it had never mattered. She didn’t pause, didn’t acknowledge him. But she did laugh, a sharp, wicked little sound that cut through the crowd as if  she had seen it coming three steps ago and had already decided how the story would end.

And Talon moved.

He didn’t bark orders, didn’t shove, or shout. He simply walked along the edge of the circle and closed his hand around the back of the drunk man’s collar. “Time to go,” the old Commander muttered. Then he dragged him backward, feet scraping helplessly across the stone, arms flailing like a child’s. Then Talon tossed him, just outside the circle, far enough to land hard in the dirt, roll once, and end up gasping face down.

He didn’t stop there, that wasn’t his style. Talon followed, stood beside the man and stepped down onto his hand, the one that had dared to touch her in such a manner without consent. His heel of the boot pushed, steady, slow, but hard. Not enough to break it, but enough to promise that he could. “You’re lucky,” he said, not raising his voice. “She could’ve turned the fire on you. And I..” The boot pressed harder. “I’m the polite one.” The man whimpered something incoherent, attempting to yank his hand away but only making matters worse for himself with a faint *crack* of bone. Talon removed his foot and turned back toward the ring.

Evie never stopped dancing. If anything, she moved faster now, spinning with purpose, eyes half-lidded, fire glinting off her skin. She didn’t look at him just yet, but when her arc carried her just enough to glimpse the groaning man in the dirt, she laughed again. Bright and beautiful, but with a hint of cruelty.

He knew she would laugh when the man squirmed under his boot. He’d seen the glint in her eye of delight instead of gratitude. That disturbed most people, but it didn’t disturb him. What did disturb him was how much he understood it. There was a shadow in Evie that mirrored his own: old grief, unspoken violence coiled in wait just beneath the surface. 

She didn’t fear what she was, she never had. And her confidence, it haunted him and thrilled him all the same because she wasn’t good, and neither was he, not really. And yet, here they were, drawn again and again into each other’s orbit. Maybe he should have been afraid of her, maybe he still would be, if the part of him that used to care about damnation hadn’t died long ago.

She spun once more to face Talon across the flames and gave him a look that could’ve melted the steel in his bones; Lust, danger, and approval. A predator’s smile curled at the corner of her lips as her hips rolled into the next movement, eyes fixed on him like she knew exactly what the sight of her did to him. And shadows help him, she did. She kept moving, fire catching in her wake, because nothing, not lust nor even danger, especially not even a man’s rough hand, could stop Evelinaa Valwyn once she began.

Talon exhaled quietly through his nose, and let the warmth of the flames flicker across his face. He stayed until the last note of the music died out, never once looking away. Like a moth to her flame.

@daily-writing-challenge

[xylaes]

May DWC 2025 Day 5 - Restless, Faith

Story Continued From ----> HERE

Xylaes didn’t move right away. He stood there, jaw clenched, arms tense at his sides like they hadn't realized the fight was already over. Not that there’d been a real fight. A punch, a kiss, and then nothing but silence swallowing the room. He blinked slowly and brushed his lower lip with his knuckles where the sharp taste of Ouro and his own blood still lingered. He hadn’t seen that coming, not from him. Maybe he should have.

He let out a breath, heavy and unsure. The air still smelled faintly of him - gunmetal, sweat, alcohol, blood, and the faintest smell of cologne. For a second, Xylaes imagined it clinging to his sheets. He paced a few steps into the room, then stopped short as he flexed his hands. He wanted a drink, badly, the muscle memory of it hit him like a ton of bricks. Something to ground him and to numb him, to blur out the weight pressing at his temples and tightening within his chest. He didn’t keep whiskey here anymore, and wouldn’t let himself have that kind of faith in old comforts. He already knew what was at the end of that rabbit hole.

Instead, he scrubbed a hand through his hair and dropped onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. The space was too quiet and he was too restless. Ouro had looked wrong tonight. Not in the usual way, either. Not just tired or guarded, but cracked open under the surface. Like someone had shaken loose the screws holding him together and he barely noticed. Xylaes had seen that look before, usually in a mirror.

He hadn’t asked probing questions because he knew damn well what it felt like to have someone attempt to peel back your layers without permission. He hated it, so he hadn’t done it to Ouro. But all of the pieces were there, the bruises, the look in his eyes, and the silence.

And still...that kiss.

Xylaes’s fingers traced over his jaw, feeling where the hit had landed. He hadn’t meant to say something that sharp. Or maybe he had, maybe he was testing the edge, the way he always did when things got too close. He could still feel the heat of that moment, Ouro’s knuckles slamming into his face, and then, before he could even retaliate, that mouth on his. All fire and fury and something terrifyingly close to need.

He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. Ouro hadn’t planned it, that much was clear. Neither of them had, which made it worse. Xylaes leaned back slowly against the wall, one leg still grounded, the other stretched across the bed like he was halfway to getting up, like he couldn’t quite commit to anything, even now.

He thought, fleetingly, about Pollux. About that time in their lives, two soldiers, forced too close by war and chaos and never asking for more than what the moment could give. No one expected permanence in the field whether it be life or romance, that wasn’t what they were looking for. Yet somewhere in the spaces between, something unspoken had bloomed, and later died with changed circumstances.

They never talked about it. Pollux had found someone else now, a woman who made him smile in ways Xylaes never could, and Xylaes was genuinely happy for him. No jealousy, just this strange ache of something that never had a name, now passed on.

So perhaps that was why Ouro's kiss rattled him more than it should have. Not just because it had been violent, but because it had felt familiar in a way that Xylaes couldn’t pin down. Something echoed in it, something familiar but unfinished.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, jaw set tight. No promises, no meanings, that’s what it had to be. He had spent too many years building walls with his own hands to start tearing them down now, especially not for someone like Ouro. Volatile, closed-off, and impossible to read. The man was a ticking bomb with too much pain in his bones to carry anyone else’s.

And yet, Xylaes had let him in.  Even if just for a moment.

He swallowed hard, then rose slowly to his feet and pulled the curtain shut. The light dimmed and the apartment fell still. No answers were waiting in the silence, just the memory of a kiss that still burned within his mouth, and the shape of a man who never should’ve walked through his door, but had. And somewhere, behind it all, the low, simmering truth that neither of them was going to forget this.

@ouroandar @polluxhale @kharrisdawndancer @daily-writing-challenge

[inistellan]

May DWC 2025 Day 5 - Restless, Faith

The scent of linseed oil, turpentine, and incense hung thick in the air as the afternoon light poured in through the tall windows that overlooked the city. Stellan Volanthus stepped quietly into the studio, his long coat shrugged off and hung on a nearby hook. The space was as he remembered: organized chaos, canvases leaned against walls, palettes of muddied color scattered about. His daughter stood at the center of it all, barefoot with brush in hand, her hair pulled up with two old paintbrushes skewered through it like pins.

She didn’t look up when he entered, too focused on the work before her. Her brush was moving in short, precise strokes over a canvas larger than most she’d invited him to see before. From where he stood, he could only make out harsh lines of red and gray.

“You said it was important,” Stellan said after a long beat, voice low so as to not startle her, “so I came.”

“Yes, thank you.” Vixannya’s voice was measured, but there was a charged undertone to it. Her brush paused and she stepped back from the canvas, finally turning toward him. “Do you know what I’ve been working on lately?”

He crossed the room slowly, his boots echoing off the hardwood floor. “Something dark,” he remarked dryly, glancing at the scattered paints and the sharp angular shadows in her latest piece. “Looks like you're angry at someone."

“Not angry, no, curious.” She motioned toward a finished painting covered with a cloth. “I’ve been painting killers, famous ones. Assassins, serial killers, some are dead, some still alive. Some I visited in prison, some agreed to sit for me. The ones who don’t, I don’t show their faces, only the ones who want to be known. I’m calling it ‘Monsters Among Us’.” If there was one thing that Vixannya loved, it was delicately traversing the edge of a sharp blade.

Stellan’s body went still. That gnawing sense deep in his chest tightened, the one that had never quite faded no matter how many names he buried or how many years passed in comfort. He kept his expression unreadable. “You always had an eye for the dark,” Voice quiet but steady.

Vixannya tilted her head. “You’re part of it.”

He studied her for a moment, unsure if she meant that in the abstract, or if she knew. But there it was, already gleaming behind her calm stare, certainty and recognition. “I assume this is where I ask how long you’ve known,” his tone betrayed a small crack of something darker. Not fear, but the memory of what he had always done when others found out.

“I figured it out a while ago. By accident, mostly. I had a vision of my brother’s death while he was playing the part. But don’t worry, I ensured that would not happen to him and his fate has changed.” The details were not necessary, so instead she let his mind wander. “Then it all just fell into place and made perfect sense. I started this painting with him in mind as The Chameleon, but then I stopped.” Her eyes softened. “Because he still is him, and he would never agree to this.”

Stellan exhaled slowly. That part was confirmation, not revelation. He’d always suspected she knew more than she let on, but hearing it spoken out loud shifted something within. “You’ve been keeping a dangerous secret.”

She raised an eyebrow. “From whom? You?”

He almost smiled. “Anyone else who’s ever known didn’t last long. You’re the exception.”

“I know,” she said, unflinching. “And that’s why I waited, I wanted your permission.”

“It is not just my permission you need. I am not the only one to carry the title.”

“Cazmilan would not dare come after me if that’s what you’re worried about. Anyways, I wanted this version to be you. Even if you all do look the same, there are still differences in mannerisms, moods, auras…colors. Things the vast majority would never notice. I do.”

Stellan moved closer to the easel, catching more detail of her rough sketch of him taking shape in shadows and jagged contrast. But no face, just the suggestion of power and presence. A shape-shifting ghost in motion, but his silhouette was unmistakable if you’d ever seen him kill. “You’re not showing my face.” Not that his face always looked the same.

“Of course not, never planned to. You would never give me permission for that, and I don’t quite recall how you looked back then. Just your presence, or lack thereof.”

He deserved that. “Why do it at all?”

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next. “Because I want to paint the truth about what runs in our blood, I want to acknowledge the thread that binds us together. It’s not about judgment, it’s lineage. This is a legacy whether we like it or not, and maybe a part of me mourns the fact I was never a part of that particular legacy. I think the world forgets too easily who really moves it. What lurks beneath the names in history. I don’t want to glorify it, just show that monsters don’t always live under beds. You were a large part of that world, and still are in some ways, so I don’t need you to atone, just to sit.”

He was quiet for a long time. His fingers brushed the edge of the stool as he debated. Her voice was calm, but the faith she had in him, the kind that could only come from someone who had seen what he was and decided to love him anyway. That was far more dangerous than any blade. “I’ve seen what runs in our blood in the mirror for decades. I never wanted it to pass to you, never wanted the weight of it on your shoulders. But you’re right, legacy doesn’t ask permission, it just seeps through if no one stops it. If this is how you claim it, not with a knife, but a brush, then fine. I’ll sit. Just don’t pretend I was ever anything more than what I was.”

“A monster. You agree?”

His thoughts drifted back to his father and how ruthlessly he trained him, stripped guilt from flesh and bone, taught him to kill with a clean conscience and disappear just after the final breath was taken. He didn’t regret the things he’d done, regret had no place in a world that rewarded precision and silence. The man he was had not died, he just grew tired of the noise and that’s when he knew it was time to pass the mantle. Still, the restlessness never left. It stirred inside him now, whispering that the work wasn’t over, only paused. “Yes. But I don’t need to be forgiven,” Finally, he sat down on the stool. “And I won’t pretend I regret any of it.”

“I know,” Vixannya murmured, reaching for a brush. “Most monsters don’t.”

He smirked, “Am I still one to you?” 

She dipped the brush in paint and met his eyes with a small smile. “Maybe, but you’re not just a monster, you’re also a man who happens to be my father and I’m trying to paint both. Anyways, sometimes the world needs monsters.” With that, she began to paint.

For the first time in a long while, he allowed himself to be still. Not vigilant, not armored, just present. Sitting for a daughter he hadn’t raised but who somehow still believed he was worth painting even after truly seeing him, and maybe that was the part that unsettled him most.

Collab with @vixannya Mentions of @cazmilan and @cazthechameleon @daily-writing-challenge

[allasticus]

Day 3 - Gaze - DWC

It did not blink.

It had no need to.

Blinking was for those who feared what they might see, or worse, what might see them.

The entity had long surpassed such petty transactions. It gazed—and the world, in time, withered beneath that gaze.

It watched mountains rise and slump into dust, oceans swell and retreat like breath in a dying body. Civilizations blinked like stars: born, burning, gone. It did not mourn. It did not marvel. It only watched.

Not from a throne, for it had no need of power. Not from a prison, though some would call its form a cage. It existed in the pause between heartbeats. In the silence before a scream. In the pupil of a man just before he dreams of something he should not have seen.

Its gaze was not light.

It was weight.

And when it turned its attention to a thing—be it beast, god, or man—that thing changed. Sometimes slowly. Sometimes with violent immediacy. But always irrevocably.

Minds cracked beneath the pressure. Stones wept blood. Names were forgotten because language itself recoiled from what it saw. The gaze was not cruel. It simply was—truth without apology, reflection without mercy.

It had no need to speak.

Why speak, when its sight told all?

Why reach, when it could be felt in the marrow?

Why move, when the whole of reality slowly turned to face it, unable to look away?

A warrior once tried.

He plucked out his own eyes to escape the stare.

Still, it saw him.

Still, he knew.

There is no blindness deep enough to hide from a gaze that sees what you are beneath the lie of flesh.

It waits now, as it always has.

Unblinking. Unmoved. Uninvited.

But soon, something will look back.

And then the gaze… becomes a mirror.

@daily-writing-challenge

[jacelandon]

May DWC 2025 Day 2 - Placate & Graceful

Warning: Creepy imagery

Carnival folk whisper of the Darkmoon Forest in hushed tones, as if saying too much might wake it. They say the forest moves when it wants, closes behind you, rearranges its bones. No one goes in, no one comes out, aside from a small few of the lucky or the invited.

Jace didn’t walk like a man trespassing, the moss didn’t squelch beneath his boots and the branches never scratched at his cheek. The thick air, cold and clotted with unseen weight, parted just enough for him to pass.

This was no welcome, just allowance.

He didn’t bring offerings, no tokens nor prayers. He never tried to placate the woods, he didn’t need to - they already knew him well. The deeper he went, the quieter the world outside became. No insects or birds, just the low, heavy sigh of the trees. Mist crawled along the ground and leaves dripped a tar-black dew that never seemed to hit the ground. Behind him, the path dissolved.

Jace didn’t look back. A flicker at the edge of vision, slender limbs scuttling between trunks. He turned his head, unafraid, but there was nothing there. Further in, the trees grew crooked, warped by time and whatever dwelled within this place. He passed half-buried masks in the dirt, cracked porcelain and carnival paint, distorted by weather. Old banners from past carnivals hung like skin, mottled and torn, caught on branches. Those who traversed and never returned.

Then, the music began, but it wasn’t his own. It crept out from the dense mist, a splintered lullaby, like fingers set at unnatural angles. A violin, perhaps, or a throat pretending to be one. Jace’s hand slid to his fiddle strap, loosening it. His fingers flexed and he walked toward the sound, not to find its source, but to greet it.

The glade opened like a gaping mouth. Fog sat heavy across the clearing, almost thick enough to chew. The trees loomed tight around the edges, like a cage with no bars - and within that cage, dancers. Nine, ten, more? They moved in stuttering circles, limbs jerking like puppets without strings. Their costumes were tattered remnants of Faire costumes; ribbons and feathers, sequins dulled with age, stained silk and moth-eaten lace. Some wore masks, some had faces that should not have been. Their movements weren’t human, not anymore. 

Jace stopped at the edge and watched. One turned to him too slowly. Its neck creaked, and its head tilted just past natural, vertebrae cracking like dry leaves. It didn’t speak, none of them did. He unslung his fiddle and the wrong-music stopped instantly as if it recognized him. Then, he played. His bow drew out a sweet lullaby, each note deliberate, but laced with unease and dissonance. It was sweet, but off, as though something was whispering beneath the melody.

The dancers twitched, then shifted. They moved to his rhythm now and their limbs smoothed. Their arcs turned almost beautiful, but still wrong. Graceful the way a spider might be, or something with too many joints. The forest listened silently. Something massive shifted behind the trees, no shape, just pressure and presence like a cold breath at the back of your neck.

Still, Jace played. A dancer stumbled and collapsed into a pile of rags and dust. Another turned in place, its mask half-falling to reveal the pale, smiling face of a child beneath with stitched lips, eyes glassy and grateful.

His tune faltered just for a moment and the trees creaked as they leaned in, hungry. He changed the rhythm, twisted it, offered something sharper, more primal. The forest paused and the dancers stilled mid-motion, heads snapping toward him in eerie unison, bone joints clicking in sync. The fog thickened and something tittered sharply behind a tree, far too close.

But Jace didn’t flinch. He played the final note, long and slow and laced with defiance. 

Then silence. The kind that isn’t empty. The kind that waits.

He bowed, just once, then turned and walked away without looking back.

The path returned for him. The trees shuddered. The glade sighed. They were appeased. Behind him, the music began again, but this time, it played his song. And the masks in the dirt smiled wider.

@daily-writing-challenge

[rylandfalkov]

May DWC 2025 Day 2 - Graceful

The club pulsed like a hidden artery beneath the bustling streets of Stormwind, a place whispered about in back alleys and high-end lounges alike. No signage spoke of its entrance, just a rune-marked steel door behind a potion shop and the low, rhythmic throb of bass that made the air feel heavy even before stepping inside.

It was dark velvet and magic smoke, sweat-laced incense and lights that shifted with the mood of the song. The crowd was alive, a writhing sea of limbs and laughter, tangled in the spell of the music and each other. But above it all, off to the side on a raised platform wrapped in a soft glow, Ryland danced. Not centerstage, he never needed to be even if he did enjoy all eyes on him.

Sky blue eyes glowing with arcane caught everything, everyone, and a few lucky souls caught him. He was shirtless, gold glitter dusting every inch of showing skin, catching the club lights like a sparkly disco ball. Fitted gold dancer shorts clung to his hips and thighs like a second skin, and leather boots rose just below his knee, heeled enough to lengthen his already commanding height.

Then, he moved. Not frantic nor flashy, but graceful. A roll of his hips in sync with the beat, a turn of his chest that showed off the subtle shift of muscle and the faint tug of nipple piercings glinting through the glitter. He arched his arms overhead, hands flexing, revealing the quiet strength in forearms dusted in metallic luster. From wrist to shoulder, his arms told a story of balance and tension, of a dancer trained from childhood in the art of control. Each extension, each sweep, each curl of his fingers shimmered like light bending across water.

His glowing gaze locked with a stranger leaning against the bar for just a moment too long. One corner of his mouth curled in that enigmatic, flirtatious half smirk that had gotten him into both trouble and silk sheets across the world. Then he turned away with deliberate slowness, the spider bite piercing below his lip catching a glint of blue light, teasing…dangerous.

Below the platform, the crowd danced on, lost in the sound. Above them he burned, a golden flame poised at the edge of shadow. Eyes flicked toward him now and then, some brief, some bold, others lingering. To those who watched, he offered little gifts: A deep sway of his hips, a glance over one glittered shoulder, the drag of his fingers along the waistband of his shorts like an unspoken suggestion. Never too much but just enough.

He turned in place, offering the side profile of a body sculpted by years of training and pleasure. Every motion was coiled with intention, sensual without ever begging. He danced as if the music belonged to him, as if the platform was built for the sole purpose of elevating the elegant arch of his back and the golden geometry of sweat and glitter across his chest. The beat shifted and he leaned into it, head thrown back, sharp isolations hitting in time and leaving only the silhouette of desire cast in blue light and soft smoke.

He wasn’t dancing for anyone, not really. But for those watching, and some definitely were, he made it feel like he was dancing for them alone.

@daily-writing-challenge

[zenithnightbane]

May DWC 2025 Day 6 - Negative

In the hush of Eversong Woods, where golden light had not yet touched the leaves, Zenith moved silently over the earth damp with dew outside his home. Barefoot, shirtless, and dressed only in loose black pants, he stood still. Tall and honed, his body was a quiet testament to discipline. Years of daily practice had carved him into something lithe and precise, flexible strength veiled in stillness. He was not broad, but every movement betrayed the control beneath his grace. Lines of muscle along his abdomen flexed and softened with breath; his arms, elegant and lean, held the quiet power of a practiced form. 

Zenith inhaled deeply, grounding himself.

His limbs flowed into motion, a slow, seamless progression of poses drawn from years of repetition. There was nothing mechanical about it. Every posture was a meditation, every stretch a choice. His turquoise eyes remained half-lidded and heavy with presence. It wasn’t about pushing boundaries or performance, it was about being with himself, fully. Without armor, without title, without the weight of others' expectations.

This was where he met the quieter parts of his soul, the parts that were not healer, pathologist, brother, or widower. Here, in the dawning light, he was only breath and body and thought. Sometimes he felt as if he was exhaling what the world could not: the negative spaces others left behind, the sorrows he absorbed in silence, the ache of things never said.

He folded forward, letting his spine lengthen and arms stretch toward the earth, the motion was slow and deliberate. Yoga had taught him patience, it had taught him how to listen to the aches beneath the surface, to move in rhythm with what needed healing. He had never sought enlightenment, only clarity, and sometimes stillness was the only place it revealed itself.

His thoughts drifted naturally, but not painfully, to those he loved and lost. He had learned not to fight the memories but to let them pass through, like the wind between trees. As the practice slowed, his breath became his anchor. Seated once more on the damp grass, he rested his hands on his knees, palms upturned. The forest stirred, a few early birds sang in the distance, and the leaves rustled softly above. He opened his eyes, aglow in the low light. 

The world would wake soon. He would dress, speak with patients, hold the hands of the dying, and soothe restless minds. But here in this fleeting hush of morning, he had already mended something quiet inside himself.

@daily-writing-challenge

[daily-writing-challenge]

SURPRISE!

All the same rules apply as they did for the previous week!

Tags will be: #maydwc2025, #yourtumblrurl, #maybonusday2025

Bonus Day - June 1st Snap, Armor

[veilosdaigoa]

May DWC2025 Day 3 - Gaze, Linger

The smell of sweat, blood, and cheap beer clung to the air as Veilos tightened the wraps around his hands. The underground brawling club below the Murder Row dive bar hadn’t changed much over the years: dim lights, the low thrum of bass heavy music pulsing through the walls from the night club next door, the illuminated ring filled with wafting smoke.

But he had changed.

He flexed his fingers as he waited his turn. His breath was calm, his stance relaxed, there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not smug and not eager to hurt anyone, just one of anticipation. That itch beneath his skin, the kind that only the bell could scratch.

The brawler ringmaster wandered up behind him and murmured softly, “Five minutes, Doc.”

“Got it,” he replied, rolling his neck with a satisfying crack. Since his first impulsive fight years ago, he had been training seriously in various techniques involved in the sport. He wasn’t the guy headlining flyers or pulling sponsors, but he had a reputation now: the Doctor who didn’t back down. The man who wasn’t supposed to win and somehow kept doing it.

He stood and made his way toward the ring. The crowd stirred when they saw him, not with adoration, but with curiosity. The kind of attention you give a gambler who keeps beating the odds. He wasn’t the fastest or strongest, but he was fun to watch, and sometimes that mattered more.

As he ducked through the ropes, his golden eyes scanned the room, not sizing anyone up, but savoring the scene. The smells, the pulse, the crackle of energy in the air. This place was filthy, loud, and dangerous, and it made him feel alive.

His opponent, a hulking troll with broad shoulders and showy footwork, was already grinning through his mouthguard. Veilos grinned right back. Not a challenge, just a shared thrill. They both knew why they were here.

Then the bell rang.

The troll came in heavy and fast, all offense and confidence. Veilos dodged the first two punches, letting them rush past before countering with a quick jab and a solid right hook to the ribs. His timing was clean and practiced. Not flashy, just effective. The crowd murmured again in surprise.

The troll wasn’t all brawn, he was clever too. After a feint and clinch, he landed a sneaky headbutt to Veilos’s temple just as the ref turned away. Veilos staggered, his vision flaring white for a moment. The crowd howled, some in outrage, others loving the dirty play. Veilos didn’t snarl or seethe. He just laughed under his breath as he shook it off. “Cheap.” 

He wasn’t here to whine about pain. He liked the edge, liked feeling his heart race, liked reading an opponent in motion, liked pushing his body to its limit and still getting up. By the third minute, the troll was slowing down and clearly frustrated. Veilos saw his chance, a little window in the rhythm, and drove a clean hook into the troll’s jaw. The follow-up was all instinct and the troll hit the mat with a heavy thud.

The crowd roared.

Veilos stood over him, chest heaving, grin softening into something content. That particular brand of euphoria, the kind that only comes after a real fight, flooded his veins. He didn’t gloat nor celebrate, he just took it all in with a kind of quiet joy as the thrill of it all flushed his cheeks.

Back in the hallway, gloves hanging from his fingers, he caught his reflection in a cracked mirror. His temple would bruise and his knuckles throbbed, and yet this was why he came back. Not for victory, not for pride, but for the adrenaline and the chaos. The grounding silence in his head when the rest of the world faded out.

Because here, in this shadowy corner of the city, he didn’t have to be a widower. He didn’t have to be a doctor constantly responsible for life and death. He didn’t have to smile for patients or stand as a symbol of healing and control. In the ring, he could truly feel: pain and clarity, noise and silence, guilt and release. It was a kind of therapy that didn’t ask him to talk.

His gaze lingered on his reflection, then drifted down the hall. The noise of the crowd had already shifted to the next round. That was fine. The ring remembered him, and he remembered what it gave him every time he stepped inside of it. That pain was proof that he was still here, still fighting. A reason to keep going.

@daily-writing-challenge

[ouroandar]

May DWC 2025 Day 4 - Dangerous, Tremendous

He stood outside the door longer than he meant to, and couldn’t recall exactly why his feet led him here. The hour was indecent, and the building uncomfortably silent. The corridor was still, light from a nearby sconce casting a soft blue and gold against the narrow hallway walls. His knuckles throbbed from the last hit he threw, split open again, still fresh. His coat was stiff with blood, sweat, and alcohol, the pistol beneath it pressed hard against his side, a dangerous reminder of how far he was willing to go if provoked. Or if invited.

He knocked three sharp raps, not a request, but a demand. Moments later the door cracked open and Xylaes blinked at him, half-dressed, runes on his arm faintly pulsing in the low light. He was always alert, always composed, but this time, Ouro saw just a flicker of surprise. 

Xylaes stepped aside and Ouro passed him without a word, heavy boots landing with purpose. The place was small and sparse, but functional. He could smell old books, smoke, and a faint bitter scent of what he assumed to be tea. It fit the man who lived here, too much past, not enough room to escape it.

He didn’t take off the coat nor did he explain himself. He stayed standing in the middle of the room with fists clenched at his sides. Every inch of him buzzed like a machine winding down after a long day of being overworked. Bruises were blooming along his cheekbone and his eye was beginning to swell. It would probably hurt more if he felt it, but a cocktail of drugs and alcohol took care of that.

Xylaes shut the door behind him. “You look like shit.”

“Fought someone, multiple someones who look worse.”

“You win?”

Ouro’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t lose.”

He finally shrugged the coat off and dropped it on a nearby chair, his stained shirt following quickly behind to survey the damage. Beneath, the bruises were worse than they’d felt and tremendous in their sprawl, along ribs and collarbone, a smear of dried blood on his side. He didn’t wince, but he felt the weight of being examined. Xylaes hadn’t moved, but his gaze tracked every inch. Ouro’s voice came out raspy. “Got a medkit, or do you let that arm do all the patching now?”

“I’ve got one, take a seat.”

Obstinate, neither moved and the silence stretched between them, not awkward, just dangerous. Like something poised to uncoil between them if either man gave it life. “Or don’t,” Xylaes continued. “Just stand there, dark and brooding, like some brothel fantasy who forgot the safeword.”

A ghost of a smirk appeared as Ouro moved to the sink, letting cold water rinse over his hands and splashing it onto his face. The cuts stung, but he barely felt it. He caught his reflection in the darkened window; one swollen eye, busted lip, a man shaped by a lifetime of violence. A ghost with a gunmetal stare. Unkillable, unfortunately. He’d seen worse, been worse. 

Xylaes finally spoke again, quieter now after retrieving the medkit. “You looking for something, An’dar? Or just out of places to bleed? Don’t think it’s this.” He held up the kit and gave it a rattling shake.

Ouro didn’t answer, at least not right away. His thoughts were too loud, memories wrapped in the smell of gunpowder and the sound of a child’s laughter he hadn’t heard in years. The date circled his brain like a vulture, a date that should have mattered, but was just any other day now since his son was long buried and unable to celebrate his own birthday. He wanted to find death tonight and had looked for it in every fist, every alley. But it refused him, like always. Too stubborn to let go.

“Didn’t want to be alone,” he said at last. Truth, in its own bitter way. The taste of the phrase scorched his tongue.

Xylaes raised a brow, he wasn’t expecting that. “You think this is better?”

“No. But you don’t ask stupid questions.”

Xylaes almost smiled, that was debatable. “Must be losing your edge, then. Showing up like this.”

“Or maybe I’m just out of fucks.”

“Yeah?” Xylaes stepped closer, careful but casual. Ouro felt it; the shift in the air, the pressure of being seen too clearly by a man just as broken by life. “Or maybe you’re afraid of what happens if you stop swinging.”

That earned him a sharp glance, but Ouro didn’t answer. Not when the room suddenly felt too small and especially not when Xylaes was standing just close enough that he could smell the heat off his skin, electric and grounding all at once. The quiet between them changed again, it turned heavier, charged with something unspoken.

Xylaes’s voice dropped into a whisper. “You sure you came here for nothing?”

Ouro’s jaw twitched. “Don’t start.”

“Or what?” Xylaes leaned in just slightly, eyes never leaving him, taunting. “You’ll run off to get your ass kicked somewhere else? Or wait around long enough to catch a bullet from someone better at it?”

Ouro didn’t think and his fist snapped forward and caught Xylaes across the jaw, not full force, but enough. Enough to break the tension, to shatter the silence, to remind both of them that this wasn’t safe nor soft. Xylaes staggered back a step but didn’t fall. He just looked up, lips parting, blood at the edge of his mouth. And those eyes, gods, those eyes burned with rage and temptation.

“The fuck is wrong with you?”

Ouro surged forward, grabbed the front of his shirt, and kissed him. It landed like another strike; hard, fast, and all violence. There was no hesitation, no question, just a clash of breath and heat. Ouro tasted iron, adrenaline, and something buried too deep to name. Xylaes didn’t hesitate, he grabbed Ouro’s shirt right back, and yanked him closer, mouth meeting his with equal force. It was reckless and messy, not about need, but about something darker and more savage. And it lingered for too long.

Ouro pulled back first, chest rising with labored breath. Xylaes didn’t speak nor move, but he was somewhat flushed and that heat in his gaze had turned molten. A gaze Ouro had no idea what to do with, so he did the only thing he could do and looked away. The silence passed between them like a loaded gun, cocked and ready to fire at a moment’s notice.  He grabbed his coat and shirt, the moment already unraveling behind him. “Don’t follow me.” He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t need one. He let the door click shut behind him and walked into the dark, jaw clenched, heart thundering like it remembered what it meant to beat.

@xylaes @daily-writing-challenge

[theconstructsworld]

May DWC 2025 Day 3 - Linger, Gaze Warnings: Death, implied child death

~ Years Ago ~

He wandered south one morning, driven not by instinct, but by a pull in his core that had no name. It had been months since Gaebral breathed false life into him. Months of observing, months of listening, months of waiting. He had lingered at the edge of ruins reclaimed by moss and shadow, he had studied mortals in cities, drifting among them silent and unnoticed.

But today was different. 

There was a weight inside him; not grief, not joy, not even hunger, something that writhed beneath this flesh. He did not know what to call it, only that it stirred when he looked too long at the horizon. 

The small village was well out of the way of any big city, soft and unguarded in the early morning haze, flanked by thick trees and tall grass. There was no gate, no guard, just life. Children shrieked with laughter as they chased one another around low wooden fences, a husband and wife leaned close in the frame of a doorway, a vendor argued with a farmer over the price of his produce. The air smelled of hearth smoke, pine sap, and bread. Ideal, lovely, perfect.

It should have been a place to observe, but something more awoke in him as he stepped into the square. Something deep, something old. The villagers noticed him, of course, people always did when he showed himself. They did not whisper or run, they lingered. Their gazes caught on his face and held fast, not from fear but something closer to awe. There was something in his stillness, something in his gaze. His beauty was unearthly, but more than that, he exuded a strange, soft gravity. A presence that called to them.

He tried to smile. The motion was slow and mechanical, muscles responding to studied mimicry rather than feeling. It did not reach his eyes, but it was enough.

A boy ran up to him, grinning. “Are you an elf?”

“I do not know,” C replied, voice serene.

The boy laughed, delighted. “You talk funny.”

“So do you.”

The boy’s mother called him back, but smiled at C with a look so gentle it might have been trust. He moved deeper into the village. A baker handed him a loaf of bread with no expectation, a seamstress pressed an embroidered handkerchief into his hands, even a dog followed at his side without prompting, tail wagging. He nodded, tried the smile again. Still hollow, still not right.

But they loved it anyway.

Then an old woman stepped into his path. Her eyes were dark and clear, her expression unreadable. She looked at him too long as though she knew. “You’re wrong.”

He tilted his head. “Wrong?”

“You were never meant to be here. Not like this.” Her voice trembled, not with fear, but understanding, perhaps recognition.

He reached for her. Not to harm, but to know. She did not flinch, but her eyes welled with something like grief. 

And then everything slowed.

A hush fell. Birds froze mid-flight, leaves hung in the air, unmoving, the villagers’ laughter stopped in their throats, the wind stilled. He took a breath, and the world tore.

There was no scream, no blaze, no violent shatter, just absence. A sudden silence that erased what had once existed. Where life had been, there was now only emptiness. A scar of ash that floated weightless in the still air, and C stood at the center of it.

The woman, the people - gone. The trees, the houses, the laughter. All gone.

No grief stirred in him, no regret, no confusion. Only fascination. He looked down at his own hands, they did not tremble, they simply existed; pale, perfect, untouched by the annihilation they had birthed. Ash clung to his shoulders, it moved like snow, yet did not fall, it drifted and refused to touch the earth. He closed his eyes. He had done this, he had unmade. Not by intention, not by knowledge, but by will. Raw, shapeless, blooming within him like a second heartbeat.

When he opened them, Gaebral was there, silent, regal, and watching. His cloak did not stir and his face held neither scorn nor praise. “You felt it,” He said, voice low and cold. “Didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“What did it feel like?”

C’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “Like remembering something I was never taught.”

Gaebral stepped beside him, surveying the ashen emptiness where life once stood. “They trusted you.”

“Yes.”

“And you destroyed them.”

“Yes.”

A long pause, then Gaebral nodded once. “Good.”

The Construct looked up at him, not with yearning, but with a quiet, fierce devotion. He wanted to hear that word again over and over: ‘Good’. He wanted his creator to see what he could become. “I want to learn more,” he said. “Show me how to do it again.”

Gaebral’s eyes gleamed like twin moons. “In time.”

Ash still hovered, caught in the same moment of death. C lifted a hand and watched it spin around his fingers like dust caught in orbit.

It was not grief he felt. It was wonder. This was power. This was purpose.

And one day, he would give the world to Gaebral, stripped of breath, stripped of defiance, its bones clean and ready for the dead to reign. He would smile again, too. Maybe next time, it would even reach his eyes.

@gaebral @daily-writing-challenge