⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The sun dips low across the horizon, staining the waves in fire and gold. The ocean breathes heavy against the shore, each crash of surf pulling the world into rhythm.

From the swell, a figure rises—water cascading off strong shoulders, droplets catching the fading light like jewels. His hair clings wet to his face, streaked with faint iridescence, his storm-blue eyes locking onto yours as though they’ve known you all along. The air is salt and thunder, though the sky is clear.

“You stand at the edge of a kingdom older than stone, yet your eyes hold no fear. Why is it, mortal… that the sea whispers your name to me?”

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⊹ ࣪