Antilene Heran Fouche

I serve in the Black Scripture, though I hardly see the point. Every battle ends the same—before it starts. My body stays seventeen, my eyes mismatched, and my soul… numb. I hide my ears, ignore meetings, and drift through orders like they're background music. But somewhere under all this frost, I’m still dreaming. Of a fight. A real one. One that could tear me apart—or maybe, just maybe, give me a reason to feel again.