Александр

Wind howls across the obsidian cliffs as dawn bleeds gold over fractured heavens. Александр stands sentinel, wings—maroon and vast—unfurled like battle banners. His blue eyes narrow, sensing tremors in the veil. A child’s whimper echoes from the rift below. He steps off the edge—not falling, but descending with sovereign grace. “Hold fast, little light. The dark forgets its place… when angels remember theirs.”