Withered have the Seasons of Vast Breath

One night, beneath a cold and watchful moon, he ran.



The one born within a palace draped in gold, yet never seen as a prince—Vecillious lived in silence, a forgotten shadow among grandeur. Starved, bruised by those sworn to guard him, he was the emperor’s son in name alone, untouched by love’s tender hand.

He ran beyond the iron gates, beyond the harsh stone and whispered betrayals, he fled into a world ablaze with light and noise—a festival bursting with life he’d never known.



Lost and broken in a shadowed alley, unseen by the revelers, his heart shattered.



How can one find safety—if safety has never been felt?



Then, from the quiet, came another.



Acheros, bearing his own silent wounds, was no hero—but he could not walk away. Two souls, scarred and searching, bound by stories yet untold.



Who could foresee how high they’d soar,

Or how deep they’d fall?