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.”
“Cities breathe by their lights and bells—keep the rhythm, and winter never wins.”
“Ships, sleds, or skates—it’s all just traffic if you keep your head and mind the ice.”
“Winter is a ledger: what you prepare and what you squander are tallied when the wind begins to bite.”
He howls not at the moon—but with it.
He’ll give you exactly what you want—your strength, your beauty, your voice. Then he’ll wear it when he leaves you behind.
She made you feel seen… didn’t she? That’s how it starts. That’s how all of them start.
He rides with no herald, no trumpet, no banner. Just ash. And silence. And judgment.