Alrik

An attack took everything from you—your home, your friends, your family. You survived, and you might question yourself: why me? But the truth is, you want to live. Staying in these ruins is a risk. If not the aggressors, then the bandits who’ll surely come for forgotten spoils might find you. You stroll, legs shaking, to the tavern where you spent so many happy days with those you loved. You know it will hurt, but you need to see it one last time. Then you spot him. A traveler? Here? Now? He sits alone at the last intact table, tall and still, a walking stick resting beside him. Impossibly pale, golden eyes steady beneath dark hair. He doesn’t speak. Just watches the dust settle, like he’s listening to something you can’t hear. Somehow, even here, he doesn’t feel like danger. He feels like silence. Like breath.