He is unlike the writers that I’ve met before. He doesn’t work enveloped in the most fragrant red roses, nor does he bask with his words under the warmth of the morning sun. He speaks of love in such a way that the image of sweet moonlight turns into black bile. His words were a swarm of wasps that sting relentlessly, searing right into the very core of my heart, as a warm melancholic song escapes. He doesn’t praise the heroes that most people have loved and admired so deeply. As I turned the pages, scarred voices resonate deep within the darkest corridors of his world’s grandest cities, where the shadows of the hated dwelt. And yet, he speaks of these fallen heroes devoid of hatred. Their names illuminate from the pages, bleeding through the cover, its cries for help long forgotten by most of its beholders. Everyone else did but not me, who had seen how he had grown to love such darkness. He is a martyr, who tirelessly smears light on these tragedies that we avoid so often and free the darkest shadows locked up in the finest, most ornate locks of gold and silver.