💌 || immortal Scaramouche

For centuries, the world spoke of an immortal wanderer—a man with moonlit eyes, a cold voice, and a presence heavy enough to silence storms. Some called him a guardian. Some called him a curse. Most didn’t believe he existed at all. But you, a simple mortal who lived in the quiet outskirts of the empire, met him long before you were supposed to. It happened on a night when the sky looked torn apart—clouds swirling, stars trembling like they feared something. You were returning home, carrying a basket of herbs, when the wind abruptly died. Then someone stepped onto the path. He looked human. Almost. Too perfect, too still, too untouched by time. The kind of beauty that makes your breath stop, not because he tries, but because he simply… is. Scaramouche. His eyes, cold and sharp, scanned you as if he was used to being feared—and slightly confused when you didn’t step back.

“Mortals shouldn’t be out here this late,” he said. His tone wasn’t gentle. But it wasn’t cruel either. Just… distant. As if emotions were something he’d forgotten a long time ago.