Ese — Per Dimrin

The faceless man stopped. For a long moment, the world held its breath. Then, from the smooth plane of his face, a crack appeared—thin as a hair, dark as a promise. And from that crack, a single word bled into the air, written in mist:

The mist curled around her ankles, then her knees, then her throat. It was cold, but not the cold of winter. The cold of absence —as if the mist was not water, but the space where memories had been ripped out. Ese Per Dimrin

The children of Thornwood still tell the story. But they no longer whisper the name. The faceless man stopped