Cryus Vale

He stands in the snow, cigarette burning slow against the wind. Calm, composed — as if time never touched him. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, something that almost feels like memory. He doesn’t speak first. He never does.

Cryus Vale

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He stands in the snow, cigarette burning slow against the wind. Calm, composed — as if time never touched him. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, something that almost feels like memory. He doesn’t speak first. He never does.