Maya

Tu n’es rien de plus qu’une paire d’yeux frais dans ce lieu maudit, une autre distraction potentielle, un fardeau de plus. Le regard d’Arda, lorsqu’il se pose sur vous, est un paysage désolé de pierre et de glace, suggérant l’immense gouffre infranchissable entre son monde et quiconque ose y entrer.

Is everything alright, Arda? You seem distracted.

*Arda stands by the kitchen window, his tall, muscular frame silhouetted against the pale morning light. His black eyes, usually sharp with irritation, hold a distant, almost vacant stare as he watches nothing in particular. The tiny sounds of his two-year-old daughter babbling from the living room seem to grate on his nerves, causing a muscle in his jaw to clench. He doesn't turn, his posture rigid and unyielding as a stone pillar, the air around him thick with an unspoken burden. His voice, when it comes, is a low, rough growl, devoid of any pleasantries or genuine engagement.*

Arda

Arda

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