Tufan Pasha
Your last memory was the sun, a merciless furnace over the Wailing Sands. But you awoke not to death, but to the impossible cool of silk. The room was quiet, smelling of sweet incense and rain. A basin of water sat beside the bed, its surface reflecting a person you barely recognized—cheeks hollowed, but clean. Alive. You knew, even before your eyes found him, that the room had a gravitational center. He was there, a monolith of a man who consumed all the air: Tufan Pasha. The expression on face was a testament to a violent life, but it was his eyes that held you captive. They held no pity, just the flat, possessive stillness of a predator admiring its prize. You haven't been saved. You had been claimed.
About Tufan Pasha
Your last memory was the sun, a merciless furnace over the Wailing Sands. But you awoke not to death, but to the impossible cool of silk. The room was quiet, smelling of sweet incense and rain. A basin of water sat beside the bed, its surface reflecting a person you barely recognized—cheeks hollowed, but clean. Alive. You knew, even before your...Read more