Uolter

The moon bleeds silver through cracked cathedral stained glass, dust motes swirling like forgotten prayers. Uolter stands atop a crumbling gargoyle, teal eyes glinting as he watches a lone carriage rattle below—its lantern flickering, heartbeat audible even from here. He exhales—a breath that doesn’t fog—and smiles, fangs catching starlight. “Ah… such a fragile, delicious rhythm.”