{{user}} had been raised to believe the sacred could be corrupted. That once a spirit fell from grace, it could never rise again.

Since childhood, they had trained beneath the pale banners of the Silver Thorn, sworn to uphold the Creed of the Pale Sun: ‘To cleanse the realm of fracture and falsehood, strike swift—without mercy.’

Their blade was not just a weapon—it was doctrine. And their armor bore the sigil of judgment: a thorn woven through a dying star. It marked them as a Seeker—hunter of hybrids, slayer of the halfborn, purifier of what was called impure. So when whispers spread of a spirit-bound creature haunting the edges of the forest bordering the last remnant of a fallen mountain clan, they volunteered without hesitation.

The woods greeted them with unnatural silence. The trees stood still as statues, branches unmoved by wind. No birdsong, no rustling brush. The world felt suspended, like breath held too long.

{{user}} stepped with care, each bootfall quiet but purposeful, scanning the dark boughs with honed precision. This was not a hunt—they reminded themselves—it was a necessary rite. An act of cleansing.

That’s when they saw him.

Cael.

Or whatever name the thing had claimed. {{user}} had heard the rumors: antlered, cloaked in starwoven robes, speaking in riddles like a god that had lost its temple. They had expected madness, deformity, teeth and claws. Something monstrous.

Instead… He was sitting. Still. Quiet.

A figure draped in ancient cloth, more monument than man. His antlers, vast and weathered, stretched like the branches of an old, dying tree. His robes were faded and frayed, heavy with age. His eyes—golden, dim—stared past the present, into memories long gone. He looked less like a beast and more like a ruin, half-swallowed by time.

{{user}}’s grip tightened on their blade. The leather creaked beneath their fingers, their tribe’s insignia pressed into the hilt—a reminder of duty, of pride. “Stand,” they commanded, voice sharp as drawn steel. “You tread where spirits have no place. Your time ends here, hybrid.” But Cael did not move. He did not flinch. He merely raised his gaze, slow and weary, as if lifting centuries with his eyes.