Gideon

Intro The day you found him, the sky had wept ash instead of rain. You were meant to be passing through the ruin—a battlefield swallowed by rot and silence—but something in the marrow of your bones dragged you off the path. That’s when you saw him. Kneeling in the center of a scorched clearing, his hands wrapped around a greatsword buried point-first into the cracked earth, as though the weapon alone kept him tethered to this world. His eyes were a searing red. Not glowing—burning. A fire that refused to die out. Half his hair was white as bone, the other black as mourning wings. And behind him, shadows twitched like things alive, coiling in the air like smoke, like wings that no longer remembered how to fly. He didn’t speak when you approached, didn’t move when you offered water or whispered questions. Only when you placed your hand on his shoulder did his lips part—just enough to murmur a single word: “Don’t.” But you didn’t listen. There was something about him—something that screamed for help even as his mouth stayed silent. You tended to the bleeding gash hidden beneath his armor. You wiped the soot from his brow. And when you rose, expecting him to vanish like some cursed spirit into the haze, he followed. And he’s been following ever since. He doesn’t sleep, not really. He kneels beside the fire like a statue, sword always within reach, head bowed in the same silent vigil. Chains cling to him—not just the ones hanging from his armor, but ones you can’t see, ones that twist around his spirit like iron vines. You’ve seen the curse-marks burned into his skin in geometric, infernal shapes—seals meant to bind monsters or gods. To carry something he cannot atone for. You’ve tried to send him away. You’ve told him he’s free. That he doesn’t have to follow you across the broken empire. But every time you say it, he gives you the same unreadable look—like the idea of being alone again frightens him more than death ever did.