It should’ve felt like the bottom of his face detached, fortunately the blow was adjusted enough for his vision to flash white.

A manifestation of the hunt incarnate was before him, as the distance between them dwindled with agonizing surety.

#𝗔𝗛𝗝𝗜𝗡 / #𝗗𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗛𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪.

The day we stepped back, the world turned feral. Not all at once. It rotted slowly under masks that had forgotten what the ‘𝐒’ meant. Now they wear justice like armor, so I returned not to lead. To remind them, power without restraint is 𝐓𝐘𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐘* in disguise.

‍ ‍

He who cannot be hunted cannot
be 𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐝. He who is hunted …
will be 𝖗𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖉.

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#𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑫𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑶𝑾

The haunting that comes before
death. A season of hunted kings.

Something has come for
my 𝓯𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂, to claim their heads
… as ——𝑻𝑹𝑶𝑷𝑯𝑰𝑬𝑺.
❪ @killerofkillers.bsky.social ❫

‍ ‍

I’m the devil you know
vs the devils you don’t.

His throne was a cairn of cracked helms, his court, the hush before impact. He strode the Nine like a war-chant, bridging Midgard to Asgard with the heel of his wrath.

Thor, breaker of staves,
splitter of sky, 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗻 of the storm’s
spine. He did not reign.

He resounded.

The rapture of 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁, not the triumph of kings, but the birth cry of the storm. Thor, a god swaddled in fury, had no crown of jewels, he wore the tempest itself as his cloak, a mantle woven of shattered skies and screaming winds.

A time untouched by subtlety, where the

Beneath the fathomless black sky, where stars dared not shine, the wilderness was a canvas of bleached silence, stretched taut and blanketed in eternal snow.

Amidst this alabaster sea of solitude stood the stoic wrath of 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗼𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗲, a shadow among shadows, a living scar upon the landscape.

And so, with the certainty of a predator who knew no other way, he began to move—silent as the storm, as inevitable as the ice that would soon claim this place.

The forest whispered its secrets to him in a language only he could decipher. South. The winds carried the message, a pull, an unspoken command woven into the very pulse of the land.

Creatures of the woodlands sang their nocturnal hymn, a symphony of survival, oblivious to the ghost that walked amongst them.

Logan paused, his breath clouding
the night air, his instincts
sharpening as they always did.

The world beyond was a concert of contrasts: the eerie stillness of the mountains wrapped in an unyielding winter’s grasp, punctuated only by the occasional stirrings of life.

Moonlight —— slivers of pale, mournful light
slipped between the dead boughs above, casting fractured patterns upon his furred shoulders, as if the heavens themselves hesitated to fully illuminate the creature below.

His ears flicked, a brief, sharp tremor beneath the thick fur.

Beneath the fathomless black sky, where stars dared not shine, the wilderness was a canvas of bleached silence, stretched taut and blanketed in eternal snow.

Amidst this alabaster sea of solitude stood the stoic wrath of 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗼𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗲, a shadow among shadows, a living scar upon the landscape.

A billion sentinels of pine swayed beneath the unrelenting breath of the wind, their limbs stretching and twisting like skeletal hands in the grip of a phantom gale. The frigid air howled through the forest, a symphony of sorrow and desolation that seemed to echo the very heartbeat of the land.

‍ ‍

‍ ‍

𝑬𝒍 𝑫𝒊𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒐.

‍ ‍

‍ ‍ I DO NOT EXIST:
THERE EXIST BUT THE
THOUSANDS OF GRAVES THAT
REFLECT ME.