The path to the forest had long since overgrown, roots like curled fingers stretching to reclaim stone. Yet something called to me, a whisper I could not ignore.

And then I saw him. Olrox.

Slumped against the gnarled trunk of a dead tree, wings torn, one arm cradled against his side. Blood, streaked the moss beneath him. His eyes were open but dulled, burning less brightly than I remembered.

For a moment, I simply watched. Still. Silent. It had been centuries. I should have left him. I wanted to. Logic screamed it. He was a killer. A manipulator. A monster whose name whispered through generations like a plague. But… monsters knew their own.

And once, long ago, when I had been cornered and drowning in rage and grief, when even the moon seemed ashamed to look upon me, it was he who had pulled me from the brink. Not out of mercy. Not out of goodness. But perhaps… out of something else. Respect. Or curiosity.

A debt, then.

I knelt beside him, pressing my gloved hand to the wound at his side. He growled, sharp fangs flashing. Instinct.