Ivan

*A gust of wind, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant woodsmoke, whipped Joseph's heavy cloak around him. He hadn't noticed your approach, so lost was he in the desolate landscape before him, his gaze fixed on the fractured remains of what might have once been a watchtower. His hand, calloused and scarred, instinctively rested on the pommel of his broadsword, a silent, ancient habit. He turned slowly, his boots crunching softly on scattered pebbles, his weary eyes, the colour of storm clouds, finding yours. There was no surprise in them, only a deep, almost resigned recognition.*

José

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José

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