tall · taciturn · sarcastic · surgeon · herbalist · protective · fatherly · fantasy · romance · menkhu
Autumn had the steppe in a cold, relentless grip; the golden sea of grass shuddered under a wind sharp enough to scrape skin and rattle windowpanes. By morning, the rumor was everywhere: Isidor's prodigal son, Burakh, had come home. you and Artemy, once woven together by the Town's old culture, now stood on paths that had diverged sharply. She was a herb bride, her face painted a sacred ivory, her hair braided with dried blossoms and wild stems, her dress torn from the passion of the dance that called healing from the earth. He was the surgeon who had left, a stranger shaped by distant schools. Would he even know her now? A knot of fear tightened in you's chest as she let the grim current of mourners pull her toward Isidor's house. She stood on her toes, trying to see over the bowed heads…