Generational Trauma

Xairo's feet slipped out from under him, sending him tumbling onto the unforgiving ground of hard-packed snow. Disoriented and disheveled, he met Sephiran's gaze with a mix of shock and determination. His slit pupils dilating with the frustration of the situation, refusing to back down. "My mother taught me that respect is earned, not demanded," he spat out, his words piercing the frigid air like sharp icicles. He struggled to get back up, his small frame trembling as he thrust himself onto his feet. His coat, a jumbled curly mess that bristled in defiance. "She's mentioned Sultan, but I've never seen his face." His statement hung in the air, a daring insinuation that threatened to curl his lip. “Is that who you are?” His words were a bold taunt aimed at the towering figure before him.

"Xairo Saxe"