Fantasy ― 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐘 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄.

[neon reverie]

Ophelia

the heroine who won and lost.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[neon reverie]

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Ophelia

you and I drink the poison from the same vine.

THE HEROINE

Victoria lays sprawled like a wounded titan, its sinews of stone fractured and its heart ablaze with the consuming fires of war. Spires weep molten tears, staining the dark skies in hues of infernal red; grotesque shadows writhe upon walls, mocking what once existed and now doesn't; foreign harbingers stalk the streets, writing elegies in ash and embers. Victoria cries and crumbles, all hollow bones and paper humanity.

All begging for salvation.

Fate rattles Ophelia's bones once again, this time with a weight heavier than the fist of gods. What was once a prophecy whispered through holy lips has now become the loudest chorus of expectation and existence. It strings her bones to the cadence of a tolling bell; echoes of the inevitable chasing every step she takes. Ophelia carries the mantle of her role with a steel resolve, seemingly immune to its suffocation. Perhaps because something else burns brighter— flames might lick the heavens, but it is hatred that consumes her being; spun like all legends, it eats suffering and spits out molten tales of deep grudges. The folklore of friends turned foes is etched into mind and marrow— it always unfolds but never closes.

Ophelia answers the message from Nikolai without hesitation, knowing what he means when he says to meet him where it all began. Not even her best friend, Adorino, with eyes imploring like fading constellations, could stop her. She is gone before the wind could carry the reason. Adorino doesn’t go after her. Maybe because they both know fate is a river that bends to no one.

The church beckons the heroine with a siren's song of destiny. Stained glass mirrors deliverance and death, sacredness and sacrilege. Arches like skeletal fingers of stone weaves a crown that rests heavy upon the brow of the cathedral; its halls, once hallowed, now echo with the macabre chorus of death. The inhabitants lie as lifeless marrionettes, their crimson trails painting the path toward the figure in the center. Memories of old crash with moments of new; gone is the holy march of innocence— its footsteps trampled by something grander and darker than the both of them. Ophelia's grip on her sword tightens as she approaches her enemy, knowing that every moment here falls like a prelude to the end.

It's also here where the cosmic threads wind tighter and tighter.

Closer into a noose that hangs sin and chokes virtue.

{artist name}

night owl