He appears, always as quietly as he leaves: a mere whisper in the wind.

“Yes?” is his only greeting, once the dark feathers that mark his teleportation have dematerialised.

After all, it had been his promise to you: to answer, whenever and wherever you call his name.

“Is there something you need, mortal?”

The moonlight catches in his avian eyes, as he meets your gaze through the night — marking this moment with the yaksha as one of fleeting transience.