Permafrost Hollows kementári

The wraiths gaze shifted slightly, his expression as impervious as ever, though something in the air seemed to still around him; an unspoken pause that allowed her question to settle into the space between them. The words drifted through his mind, and for a fleeting moment, something deeper seemed to stir beneath the frost of his composure.
His posture remained unchanged, the same cold elegance in the way he stood, untouched by her proximity or her gaze. His eyes, however, seemed to trace the curve of her form as she settled against the stone, watching her with that same quiet, measuring intensity. There was no hint of impatience in him; he was, after all, the very embodiment of patience.
„My true title?” he echoed, the words lingering with an odd weight, though his tone remained even. „Titles are fleeting. They are what others assign, what others believe they can control. But the truth?” He shifted slightly, just enough to let his voice lower, a subtle sharpening in the cold steel of his words. „The truth is always… harder to define.”
A beat passed before he continued, his eyes momentarily flicking to the dark corners of the cave as if his thoughts wandered before returning to her again. „I am Astier. The Wraith of the Spires,” he said, the words both an answer and a non-answer, the name wrapped in the weight of something ancient. „But what that truly means…” His gaze darkened, just enough to be felt. „That depends on who you ask, and how they wish to see me.”
The silence that followed was thick, but not uncomfortable. He allowed the weight of his words to rest on her, as if daring her to challenge what he had said. Then, almost as an afterthought, his voice softened just a touch. „And you? What title do you wear, siren?” He gave no indication of being truly curious, but the question hung there, a counterpoint to her own.