“Light remembers—give it clean edges, and even winter will shine.”
“Salt is memory. Smoke is patience. Together they carry summer through the white months.”
“Warmth is infrastructure—treat it like a streetlamp, not a luxury.”
“Winter tests the seams—of coats, of hearts. I mend both with patience.”
“Cold kills the careless—my seams don’t.”
His oath smells of cedar and snow; his rage, of copper and storm.
Where dawn gilds the ice, a queen of talon and beak keeps court.
A mountain’s shadow unhooks from the peak and takes the wind with it. Then the night screams.
The mountain keeps its dead—and its secrets—in Gralk’s white hands.
Quills like icicles; jokes like knives. He laughs as the snow drinks.
“Roads aren’t found in winter; they’re built—one anchor, one breath, one brave step at a time.”
“Put down the knife, pick up the pen—let the ink carry what your anger cannot.”