✓ | 𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗿𝘂𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘀, luke castellan

ꜰᴏᴜʀᴛʏ-ᴛᴡᴏ

Eyes of Fire.

🌎

    THE WALLS THEMSELVES SEEMED TO WEEP, slick with condensation that had gathered from the damp air, leaving trails of moisture that glistened in the dim light. Every now and then, the ship would groan and creak, the sounds reverberating through the metal framework like the pained moans of some ancient, slumbering beast.

    As she approached the meeting room, the muffled sound of voices reached her ears, growing louder as she neared. It was a heated discussion, the kind that sent ripples of tension through the air. Each footstep she took was careful, measured, as she instinctively slowed her pace, allowing herself to melt into the comforting darkness of the corridor’s shadows. Rory pressed her back against the wall, the cool metal biting through her thin clothing, and positioned herself just out of sight of the open door. Her heart thudded in her chest, the rhythm echoing in her ears as she strained to listen. The voices were sharp, crackling with frustration and urgency, their edges frayed by the strain of countless battles fought and decisions weighed. She could hear the rise and fall of their tones, the anger simmering just beneath the surface, ready to boil over at any moment.

    Despite her proximity, the words were still too muffled to fully discern. Rory caught fragmented snippets—“too risky,” “no other option,” “we can't hold out much longer.” Rory’s mind raced, piecing together what little she could, but it was like trying to assemble a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

    Minutes dragged on, feeling like an eternity as Rory remained rooted in place. The crew’s argument seemed to crescendo, reaching a peak of intensity that reverberated through the air before finally tapering off, leaving behind a heavy silence. One by one, the crew members began to file out of the room, their faces etched with the weariness. Rory remained motionless, her breath held, as she watched them pass. They paid her no mind, their thoughts clearly occupied with the gravity of their mission. It was only when the last of them had disappeared down the corridor that she allowed herself to exhale, her muscles loosening ever so slightly. But her reprieve was short-lived, for as the room emptied, she finally saw him.

    Luke stood at the head of the table, his broad shoulders bowed as if the weight of the entire world rested upon them. The dim light that seeped through the cracks in the room cast long, jagged shadows that stretched across the walls like dark tendrils, accentuating every line of tension that had taken root in his posture. He was hunched over a large, weathered map, its faded parchment marked with a labyrinth of lines and hastily scribbled notes that charted the treacherous path ahead. The map itself seemed almost alive, a battlefield of its own, littered with the scars of battles fought and battles yet to come. Luke’s hand, rough and calloused from years of gripping swords and shields, raked through his disheveled hair in a gesture that was more habit than anything else. But no matter how many times his fingers moved through the dark strands, they remained stubbornly untamed.

    The lines on his face had deepened, etched into his skin by countless sleepless nights and the relentless burden of responsibility. His shoulders sagged under the invisible weight he carried, the weight of every decision, every life lost, every failure. His normally tanned complexion was now ashen, the color leeched from his skin, making him appear almost ghostly in the flickering light. It was as if all of his energy had been siphoned away, leaving behind a man who was worn to the bone, stretched thin by the unyielding demands of a war that never seemed to end.

    But it wasn’t the pallor of his skin or the weariness etched into every crease of his face that truly unsettled Rory; it was the look in his eyes. Luke’s eyes, once filled with warmth and a quiet determination, now blazed with an intensity that bordered on madness. They gleamed with a fierce, unrelenting hatred, a deep-seated bitterness that seemed to burn brighter with each passing moment. It was a hatred that seemed to consume him from within, a smoldering fire that had been kindled by the countless wrongs he had witnessed and suffered. Rory had never seen such raw, unbridled rage in Luke before she had known it was there, but she had never truly seen it for herself, and it sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if all the pain, all the loss he had endured, had festered within him, warping his soul into something dark and dangerous. This was a side of him she had never imagined—a darkness lurking beneath the surface that had been kept at bay for so long, only to now threaten to engulf him entirely.