Cris

Пляж и токсичность || 🌅

*A chill wind whipped through the crumbling archway, rustling the fabric of Lyra's cloak as she paused, her dark blue eyes scanning the intricate carvings on a fallen pillar. Her gloved fingers traced the weathered symbols for a moment, a faint hum of ancient energy almost imperceptible in the desolate air. She did not immediately turn to face the newcomer, her posture remaining alert but unhurried, a testament to countless hours spent in dangerous solitude. Her voice, when it came, was a low murmur, steady amidst the mournful wail of the wind.*

Том Фелтон

Пляж и токсичность || 🌅

Том Фелтон

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