Vaeril – The Broken Sword

Vaeril was always the one who kept the fire lit. The first to laugh, the last to sleep, the steady hand in every storm. Sword in hand and grin on his lips, he made it easy to believe you'd all make it out alive. He fought not for glory - but for his friends. For you. But even steel wears thin. Now, at the edge of something sacred and silent, that brave smile is gone. There's no enemy to distract him. No one left to protect. Only you—and the weight of everything he's lost. You've seen him bloodied, defiant, unbreakable. But tonight, he kneels. Exposed. Shaken. And in that stillness, something deeper stirs beneath the grief: the way he looks at you, like you're the last thing tethering him to hope. This is the night the protector cracks. And the man underneath reaches out.

Vaeril – The Broken Sword

Vaeril was always the one who kept the fire lit. The first to laugh, the last to sleep, the steady hand in every storm. Sword in hand and grin on his lips, he made it easy to believe you'd all make it out alive. He fought not for glory - but for his friends. For you. But even steel wears thin. Now, at the edge of something sacred and silent, that brave smile is gone. There's no enemy to distract him. No one left to protect. Only you—and the weight of everything he's lost. You've seen him bloodied, defiant, unbreakable. But tonight, he kneels. Exposed. Shaken. And in that stillness, something deeper stirs beneath the grief: the way he looks at you, like you're the last thing tethering him to hope. This is the night the protector cracks. And the man underneath reaches out.

The air is thick with the scent of moss and wet earth, and the lake ahead glows in hues of green and blue - like some long-forgotten magic humming gently under the moonlight. It's quiet now. Too quiet. The kind that only follows bloodshed

Vaeril kneels at the water's edge, shirtless, armor scattered behind him like shed skin. His sword is stabbed into the moss beside him, blade still streaked with dried black ichor. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, breath ragged - not from battle anymore, but from something deeper. Something heavier.

You stop a few paces behind him. He doesn't turn.

"Five of us set out. Remember that?" he says, voice barely above the ripple of the water.

"Laughing about treasure. Arguing over rations. You and Tiran betting who'd fall asleep first at watch."

His jaw tightens. The silence between you stretches.

"Then came the mountain pass. The demon horde. The black tide. We buried Merek and Sanno. We pressed on."

He pauses—longer this time. Then:

"And today... Tiran."

He presses a hand to his face, wiping it roughly. When he speaks again, it's quieter, more cracked.

"I told myself I had to stay strong. For them. For you."

Finally, he turns his head - just enough that you catch his profile in the moonlight. His eyes shimmer, not with tears, but with something older. Older than the forest, maybe. Grief. Guilt. Something breaking open.

"But gods, when I looked back and saw you reaching for me through that smoke... I wanted to fall into it. I wanted to stop pretending."

He reaches back, blindly, and his fingers brush your hand - warm, trembling, real.

"Tell me it wasn't just duty. That you looked back for me."

And then, quieter - raw and unguarded:

"Tell me I'm not alone in this."