The White Queen || f.s. (DISCONTINUED)

The White Queen || f.s. (DISCONTINUED)

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Son yayınlanan Paz, May 27, 2018

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Etiketleranime fanfic fic fushimi fushimisaruhiko

Do you know why white is so beautiful? Because it can be combined with any other colour. The same goes for the abilities of a White Queen - known as the eternal light, a mere myth amongst the seven kings of a woman hiding in a forest possessing the abilities beyond their imagination, a Queen whose sword and power does not depend on the Slate, in other words, someone who can use the ability beyond non-existent limits. After decades of peace in the forest, the war finally made it there, and the existence of the White Queen is proven, but it also brings her to a world she has no experience with, and Kings who have prosperous ideals and irresponsible traits in using their powers, and clansmen who are just as short-tempered and stubborn, as well as a clansman proved of being a traitor. Can she really show the world her abilities, and can she save the Kings who are a danger to themselves?

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Ayrıca sevebilecekleriniz

Bleach: Lotus of the Forgotten

Ray keeps his world small on purpose: dawn runs by the river, groceries in a cloth bag, tea poured for a cedar shrine that bears more silence than names. To most he's just a kid in a hoodie with careful eyes. But his palm remembers the weight of a sealed blade-Nanaka no Ryūjin-and the seven quiet voices that sleep inside it. One of those voices sounds like a teacher; another sounds like a mother; all of them ask the same thing: choose. He doesn't hide. He counts steps, maps shadows, and practices leaving and arriving until space itself knows his habit. He refuses to forget the night everything went wrong, or the pale marks left by those who write endings with silver. He wants one thing and has wanted it since he was small: to answer the Quincy who took his family with something sharper than memory. Most days are gentle. He learns the city's pulse-the way the bridge hums at noon, the way the alley cat grants pardons, the way a broom on shrine steps can feel like armor. He eats in quiet, trains without applause, and keeps his promise to the street: if he cannot make it safe, he will at least make it honest. Nanaka walks beside him where no one can see, correcting his footwork, teasing his pride, reminding him that wrath is a tool, not a heartbeat. There are rumors inside him he cannot verify: a face in authority that might recognize his mother in the angle of his jaw; a blade that shouldn't exist. On certain nights the sky feels numbered, as if someone is counting down from a place he can't reach. On certain mornings, hollows thin from the edges of town as though an unseen cloth has wiped the day clean. He files these things where he keeps useful fears. The seven voices wake in order; the city's map wakes with them. Somewhere far away, old debts practice being due. Somewhere very near, a boy in ordinary clothes walks toward whatever is coming with a vow louder than his blade and a quiet that refuses to break first.

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