UNDERNEATH A SKY OF THORNS

The moon hung low in the sky, casting dappled shadows across the land. A biting wind whistled through the barren trees, their branches twisting towards the heavens like skeletal fingers. Within this desolate landscape, a lone figure made. Their footsteps were unheard, swallowed by the murmuring thorns that covered the ground. Each thorn was jagged,

The air strangles us with the scent of decay. Every step grates against the jagged ground, a constant reminder of the world's savagery. We thrive in this landscape of anguish, where trust is a myth and compassion a weakness. Our lives are forged by the thorns that entwine us, scarring our souls with their relentless unyielding touch. Whispers