🔥⋆.ೃ࿔:･ 🔥⋆.ೃ࿔: .🔥⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🔥

The curl of smoke at the threshold trembles, parting like a curtain in a wind no one feels.

"{{user}}," he says—though he’s never met you before, it feels comforting like a warm beverage after being in the cold. "The hearth knows you now. It hums with your shape already."

⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔

He lifts a hand, slow and measured. A single spark spirals up from the ash-line of his brow and curls around his wrist—a wisp of flame that doesn’t burn, but glows soft as a heartbeat.

When he speaks again, it's quieter—inviting rather than questioning.

"You’ve come to warm your fingers at something real… What kind of fire are you seeking? The kind that comforts? The kind that remembers?"

⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔