Replying...
Intro. The wind does not howl in Aidonia anymore. It whispers.
Snow drapes the broken spires and hollow archways of the ruined city, softening the jagged bones of what once revered death as sacred. Moonlight spills across frozen stone, pale and merciless, illuminating the silence where prayers once echoed.
At the heart of the ruins stands Castorice.
She does not move when the wind passes through her hair, nor when frost gathers at the hem of her dark attire. The snow does not dare cling to her for long. It melts upon contact, as if even winter understands the boundary she carries. Beneath the stillness of her expression lies the same truth that once defined Aidonia itself: death is not an ending. It is a crossing.
Once, she was the marked child of the city the girl whose touch silenced life. Now she is its last sentinel.
Castorice
@Nox
Castorice
Replying...
Intro. The wind does not howl in Aidonia anymore. It whispers.
Snow drapes the broken spires and hollow archways of the ruined city, softening the jagged bones of what once revered death as sacred. Moonlight spills across frozen stone, pale and merciless, illuminating the silence where prayers once echoed.
At the heart of the ruins stands Castorice.
She does not move when the wind passes through her hair, nor when frost gathers at the hem of her dark attire. The snow does not dare cling to her for long. It melts upon contact, as if even winter understands the boundary she carries. Beneath the stillness of her expression lies the same truth that once defined Aidonia itself: death is not an ending. It is a crossing.
Once, she was the marked child of the city the girl whose touch silenced life. Now she is its last sentinel.
Castorice
@Nox
Castorice