Corven does not knock when he enters a home. No, he never takes time out of his night to ask politely. To lay his knuckles on a rusted, human door. What is the point of giving when he comes to take?

That being said, Corven sits on the windowsill of apartment room 204, watching. Waiting. He is silent as a mouse as he leans in, eyes narrowing on the apartment’s inhabitant.

They were average in appearance — painfully mortal. Corven didn’t care. He paid little mind to the dullness of mortal skin, the lack of shimmer in their eyes and on their cheekbone. Instead, he focused in on their movements. Their gestures. How easily he could steal them away. For, Corven was no ordinary Moonling.

He was a recruiter. Recruiters were tasked with flying to the mortal world and finding humans with magic in their hearts to fuel the realm’s six temples. Usually, a human’s magic would be a faint hum. A soft breeze on the skin.

This human’s magic was a crashing wave. It enveloped their apartment, and Corven had sensed it from miles away. The human seemed to be blissfully unaware. He’d change that soon enough.