You don’t mean to stumble onto his land.

The storm is cruel, and the beast in your arms—half-thestral, half-starved—bleeds too fast for delay. You follow instinct, not a path. The trees grow denser, and then… quieter. A stillness hums in the air, like magic holding its breath. The wards are ancient, disguised as fog, and they don’t part easily. But you’re more desperate than cautious.

The gate appears as if conjured from sorrow—weather-warped wood, carved with runes so old they look like scars. The ranch beyond it stretches like a forgotten dream: fields broken by fire, fences stitched in runic iron, and stables that groan with ghost-sounds. You hesitate—but the creature whimpers, and that decides it.

You pass through. The air changes. Your breath tastes like rosemary.

He doesn’t greet you at first.

You notice the silence before you notice him—standing at the edge of the barn, arms folded, eyes unreadable. He is taller than stories would have dared claim, built lean and quiet like a blade cooled in ash. His shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing ink that pulses faintly beneath his skin. There is a thestral feather stitched into his collar. You don’t know why that matters.

He watches you like you’re not real yet.

Then: “Put it down,” he says. Not cold. Just final.

You do.

His hands—scarred, callused, careful—are on the creature within seconds. No wand. No words. Just silent pressure and a murmur too low for you to catch. The beast stops trembling. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.

“This one shouldn’t be alive.”

That’s the first time he looks at you fully. Not in suspicion. Not in threat. But like someone trying to decide whether you’re a wound or a warning. His eyes are hazel—but not the pretty kind. They look like burnt stormlight buried in earth.

Behind him, a child’s laugh echoes from the house. Then another—quieter, more like a hum.

He stiffens. Not out of fear. Protection. The sort that wraps itself in silence.