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Summary
Shadow Milk was not a man who understood the concept of mercy.
To him, it was a word soaked in bitterness, a concept so foreign and sharp, stinging even in thought. Mercy never came for him when he needed it most. Now, with the collapse of his spire, Shadow Milk is left with nothing except a hand, soft and steady, extended in the wake of ruin. But trust doesn’t rebuild itself overnight. Not after betrayal. Not after not knowing anything else for centuries.
It falls to Pure Vanilla to tend to wounds long left to rot. But does a mere healer such as himself have the ability to achieve that?
[Updates once every full moon]