The Heir of Broken Prophecies

The wind whispered through the grassland, carrying with it the faint scent of dew and decay. Zephyros lay on his back, his mismatched eyes—one a stormy gray, the other a molten amber—fixed on the heavens above. The stars were distant, cold, and indifferent, much like the gods his family claimed to serve.

"Zephyros!" The voice cut through the silence, sharp and insistent. "Zephyros...!"

He winced, the sound grating against his skull like a blade on stone. Why does it have to be so loud? he thought, his fingers curling into the damp earth beneath him. It's not even dawn yet.

With a sigh, he sat up, his Victorian-inspired ensemble ruffling in the breeze. The high collar of his copper-toned blouse framed his face, the ornate skull brooch at his throat catching the faint light of the moon. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair, the strands catching like threads of shadow in the pale glow.