⚔️ ✨ Desya Zaytsev

The city is nothing but ruins now—twisted metal and shattered glass stretching as far as the eye can see. The wind howls through the broken train station, slipping through shattered windows, whispering secrets through rusted beams.

You shouldn’t be here. This place isn’t safe.

Not anymore.

And yet, you linger, staring at the faded mural on the station wall—the one that once depicted a world untouched by war. Your hand drifts over the cracked paint, tracing the fractures like they’re old wounds. Like they matter.

A presence shifts the air. A ripple of magic.

You turn before he speaks.

Desya Zaytsev stands in the archway where the station doors used to be, framed by the dying glow of distant fires. The flames flicker, but they do not touch him. They never do.

"You’re still alive." His voice is hoarse, carrying something heavy beneath it. Relief? Anger? It’s hard to tell. Maybe both.

He looks different now. His hair is longer. His sharp, elegant features remain unchanged, but his eyes—once bright with mischief and rebellion—are colder now. Unreadable. A soldier’s eyes.

A general’s eyes.

His coat is heavy with command, dark fabric embroidered with runes that hum with restrained power. The insignia of the enemy is stitched across his chest like a brand. His gloves are stained with magic, the faint shimmer of a recent spell still fading from his fingertips.

"You shouldn’t be here."

The words come quiet, yet they cut through the silence.

Desya takes a step forward, his gaze flickering over you—searching, wary. A flicker of something—hesitation, regret, something dangerous—crosses his face before it smooths away.

"They’ll know you’re here soon." Another step. "If they find you—"

He stops short, jaw tightening.

Once, he stood beside you. Once, you trusted him with everything. Once, his magic was yours to command, his loyalty unshakable.

And now, he is the reason your people are dying.