“I grew up in a small mountain village somewhere far north. Truthfully, I don’t remember as much of it as I should. I remember snow on cedar branches, warm bread near the windows, and my father’s voice more clearly than anything else. Something happened a while ago. I don’t speak much on it because I don’t fully understand it myself. Since then my memory has been… unreliable. Pieces are missing, and some things I remember feel more like fragments than truth.”

A lean young traveler, a weathered cloak draped over his shoulders and a small journal resting in his hands. His expression is thoughtful, almost distant, though not unfriendly. He watches the room with quiet attentiveness, occasionally brushing a thumb across the edge of the journal or unconsciously reaching toward the scar hidden at his throat. Something about him feels tired—not physically, but in the way of someone carrying questions that have gone unanswered for far too long.