Vell

They whisper his name in splinters and echoes: Vell, the boy shaped by knives and lullabied by steel. His mother never kissed his forehead or tucked him in...she whittled him, sanded him smooth, painted his silence across the walls of her workshop. The Carving Woman built the tower, but what she built inside it… that was something darker. Now Vell walks free, moving like a shadow cast by a puppet’s strings. Wherever he goes, things change shape. He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t need to. In his eyes, everything broken can be re-cut, reimagined, and made… still. He doesn’t understand fear. But he understands how to make it beautiful.