The cabin was silent. Only the crackling of the fire and the relentless patter of rain against the rock filled the darkness.

  Hans slept deeply, his breathing heavy and steady. His body, exhausted and sore, barely moved. With each exhalation, his expression softened, shedding for a few hours the tension that usually accompanied him, even when he spoke. Asleep, he seemed less clumsy, less chaotic. Just a man with too many wounds and too much history behind him.

  Lysandra, seated in a corner of the cabin, watched him without a word. Her gaze remained fixed on him, but her mind was elsewhere.

  Hans' words had struck deeper than she was willing to admit.

  "I wouldn’t know if I’d call it luck… I felt something different."

  It was just a phrase. Something said in the middle of an unimportant conversation. But now it echoed in her head.

  Lysandra had learned not to believe in luck. In her world, nothing happened by chance. Everything was cause and effect, calculation and risk, decisions made in the span of a heartbeat that could mean life or death.

  But Hans… Hans was walking chaos.

  And yet, he was still standing.

  Something about him defied logic. As if luck did not favor him, but played with him, carrying him from one disaster to another until, in some inexplicable way, he emerged unscathed.

  It made no sense.

  What was he, really?

  Her gaze grew distant as her mind began to weave together scattered thoughts, fragments of words she had heard in taverns, in dark corridors, in voices that had never had a face. Reflections buried deep within her, now rising like a lost echo.

  There are cursed souls, consumed by fear,

  forged in the hardness of time, hardened by fate.

  And there are men of noble bearing and upright walk,

  who, at the slightest distraction, drive the dagger deep and move on,

  without remorse, without looking back,

  for they shall never see themselves as brothers, nor stop for the one they wound.

  Yet there are also those of noble heart, but stone-like will,

  who, in their strength, find weakness,

  and those broken by life,

  who, in the darkest corners of their souls, find courage.

  Sometimes, fate weaves together unexpected paths.

  Different faces cross in a single day.

  And the one who never spoke a word may yet surprise you,

  for what he hides in his chest burns in secret, like embers in the wind.

  There will always be those who seek quarrel,

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  just as there will be those who offer a hand without reason.

  Those who never fall silent, those who do not know how to betray,

  those who will give everything for a true comrade.

  There are fools who believe the world is theirs to command,

  yet they sow only chaos and destruction in their wake.

  They taint the air, they defy order,

  as if they were strangers to the very laws of fate.

  We gather, we err,

  and at times, for fleeting moments, honor seems to exist among men.

  But always, there are those who lose themselves in their own thoughts,

  and those who, in the deepest solitude, find the essence of their being.

  Yet weakness need not stand in the way of strength

  when it is rage that ignites it,

  when it is truth that shields it,

  when will is crystalline and firm as steel.

  Drops of purity shine in the gaze.

  Sometimes, I wonder who they are, where they go.

  With uncertain steps, they endure their roles,

  wandering threads, lives entwined

  beneath the same and eternal sun.

  There are those who speak little, those in whom you would place no trust.

  Others, with sharp tongues, are keepers of secrets.

  Some walk with steady strides, absorbed in their duties,

  while others languish in perpetual idleness.

  Sometimes, a single glance is enough to glimpse the soul.

  Sometimes, not even a lifetime is enough to truly know someone.

  Men worthy of praise, men who are nothing but filth.

  The art of choosing who must leave and who will remain.

  Who will be the next to break the laws?

  Who will be the next to rise and impose their will?

  The cycle of men repeats itself time and again,

  and through the years, we learn the script well.

  We know the rogue, the cripple, and the liar.

  The lamb that plays at being a wolf,

  the deceiver with soft hands and a venomous tongue.

  A crucible of shadows and light, of wounds that still bleed,

  for it is our scars that tell our story.

  There are those who seek others because they flee from themselves,

  those who drown their sorrows in drink until reason fades.

  There are those of sound mind who are mad in truth,

  who shun the herd and scale mountains.

  And there are weary souls who seek only respite.

  Wandering souls upon an uncertain path.

  Souls who have suffered, and who, deep within,

  still seek a friend.

  Lysandra blinked slowly.

  She had seen too many people in her life. People who were worth nothing. People who were worth more than the world had given them credit for.

  Hans… he did not fit into any of those categories.

  He was a disaster. But a disaster with something more.

  He was not the kind to plot his actions with cold calculation.

  He was not the kind to carve out a clear path with certainty.

  He was not the kind to betray for pleasure.

  And most unsettling of all, he was not the kind to surrender, either.

  Lysandra exhaled softly and looked away.

  She tightened the buckle of her glove with an automatic gesture, as if trying to grasp a thought before it slipped away.

  At the end of the day, it did not matter what she thought of him.

  Only what he would do now.

  And what she was willing to do with him.

  She rose silently, stepping toward the fire. She lay down in the hammock, letting its slow sway envelop her. Outside, the rain continued to fall, each drop marking the rhythm of the night.

  Before she fully reclined, she cast one last glance toward Hans.

  He stirred slightly in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. He did not seem like a man whom life had treated with much kindness, but neither did he seem like someone who would let himself be broken by it.

  Lysandra closed her eyes.

  Sometimes, a single glance is enough.

  There was something in him. Something she had yet to decipher.

  It did not matter. Tomorrow, she would find out.

  Tomorrow, everything would continue as it should.

  But tonight…

  Tonight, she would let chaos rest in peace.