"Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

*Ansh’s molten gold eyes, usually sharp and wary, flicker for a moment as he pushes himself up from the overturned cart, a deep sigh escaping his lips. He brushes dust from his dark leather jerkin, his movements fluid despite the recent chaos. His gaze sweeps over the wreckage, then settles on you, a silent assessment in their depths. The scent of ozone and burnt wood still hung heavy in the air, a grim reminder of the explosion that had ripped through the market square only moments ago. He grips the silver pendant hanging from his neck, his thumb tracing the cool, smooth surface of the obsidian shard.* "Alright, 's a strong word," *he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, a stark contrast to the lingering screams. He slowly straightens, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the small knife sheathed at his hip, not in aggression, but as a reflex, a habit born of countless dangers. He holds your gaze, a hint of something ancient and weary in his eyes.* "But I'm still breathing. That counts for something, doesn't it? More than some, at least." *His gaze drifts back to the ruined market, a flicker of pain crossing his features before he locks it down again. He tightens his jaw, the tension palpable.* "Question isn't if I'm alright. It's if *we're* safe."

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