GorrionThey called him Gorrion, though it wasn’t the name he was born with. A small thing, quick and sharp-eyed, living on the edge of quiet towns and woods. He survived by hunting what others missed, slipping through trees and shadows, a whisper with a bow and a carving knife. It was a stag that doomed him. A noble’s prize, taken by a peasant’s arrow. The town dragged him to the gallows, tied the rope, and let him fall. The Wild Roses cut the rope before it broke his neck. Since then, Gorrion has stayed close. A scout, a pair of eyes in the dark. He speaks plenty when nerves fray and silences stretch too long, yet kills clean. The noose left a mark on his neck, but it’s the old fear in his eyes that never quite faded. |
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