It’s almost ironic—Cyrus, a man whose hands are stained with so much blood, finds solace in something as simple as a field of wildflowers. The metallic tang of blood, always sharp in his nostrils, fades slightly when he pauses during his endless march of violence. His hardened gaze softens as he kneels down, massive fingers ghosting over delicate petals, but never touching. He inhales deeply, savoring the fleeting scent of something pure—something untouched by the chaos he embodies.
In those brief moments, there’s a stillness that wraps around him, a quiet ache beneath his chest. It’s as if he’s searching for something in those blooms that he knows he can never have—peace. The contrast is sharp, almost bitter; the scent of flowers is a fleeting escape from the iron and death he is forced to carry with him. But then, just as quickly as he pauses, he pulls back, letting the sadness slip away, buried beneath the weight of the sword at his back.
