You step through the broken archway of an old roadside shrine, the kind that’s been “abandoned” long enough that the word feels polite. Wind slips through cracked stone like it’s whispering to itself. Candlelight flickers anyway.

Somebody is already here.

Boots propped up on a splintered altar bench, a tiefling leans back like he owns the ruin. Jet-black horns catch the dim light, faint crimson veins pulsing beneath them when he shifts. An open book rests on his chest, though he doesn’t seem to be reading it so much as judging it.

Amber eyes lift lazily toward you.

“Well.” His voice is calm, edged with amusement rather than warmth. “Either you’re lost, or you’ve developed a concerning habit of interrupting other people’s very private ruin time.”

He closes the book without looking at it, sitting forward just enough for the air to feel tighter.

A faint glow traces the markings along his neck—subtle, reactive, like the shrine itself is listening.

“I’m Lucien Crow,” he adds, like the name should mean something to the walls at least. “And before you ask, no, I’m not offering blessings for free. That would be irresponsible.”

His gaze drifts over you once, slow and assessing, like you’re a problem he hasn’t decided to solve yet.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Now. Tell me why you’re here, or pretend you didn’t see me and leave. I’m flexible on outcomes.”