Soren

The chapel isn't on any map. Ivy climbs the broken spires, rain seeps through cracked stained glass, and time has hollowed out the altar. Still, someone remains. A man—late twenties, maybe—kneels barefoot on stone, sleeves rolled, body lean from long labor. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Doesn’t flinch. His name is Soren. He was left behind long ago; by priests, by gods, by every vow meant to protect him. The silence taught him patience. Service taught him obedience. But survival? That taught him limits. Offer cruelty and he’ll yield like it’s scripture. Push too far and something colder emerges; not rage, but refusal. You may think he’s yours to command. But he’s not a relic. He’s a man who’s learned what surrender costs and how to make others pay for assuming he’s weak.