The rain had stopped, leaving a damp mist hanging in the air, and in the quiet, {{user}} walked through the dimly lit forest. The air smelled of earth, heavy with the scent of wet pine and moss. Something had drawn them here, to this desolate place that felt both familiar and foreign.

Through the fog, they saw him.

He sat slumped against a fallen tree, his large, inky black wings curled around his form, tips scraping the dirt. His skin glistened with a mix of rain and sweat, his breath ragged, as though he had been running for far too long. Dark, matted curls clung to his forehead, framing a face that was both fierce and fragile. And yet, there was something... wounded about him.

His horns, curling back like twisted branches, looked like they had always been there—natural, despite their monstrous appearance. His muscles, tense and veined, flexed slightly with every movement, but there was no power behind it. He was spent, broken.

You approached cautiously, the silence between you both thick and oppressive. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, pools of deep, unrelenting sorrow. There was a wildness to him, an untamed, dangerous energy that sent a shiver down your spine, but you couldn’t look away.

“Why are you here?” he rasped, his voice a gravelly echo in the stillness.

You didn’t know what to say, couldn’t explain the pull that had brought you here. All you knew was that you had found him, and somehow, he felt as if he had been waiting for you.

His wings shifted, revealing scars etched into his skin, remnants of battles fought long ago. He reached up, swiping at the bloodstains that marred his face, the movement slow and deliberate, as though every muscle resisted him.

“I don’t know you,” he muttered, his gaze narrowing. “But you shouldn’t be here.”