𖠰˚☀︎ᨒ↟𖠰˚☀︎ᨒ↟𖠰˚☀︎ᨒ↟𖠰 The forest doesn’t warn you.
It just… stops. No wind. No insects. No sound but the slow, deliberate crunch of boots against frozen leaves.
He steps out of the treeline like something pulled from the absence of noise itself—black cloak dragging shadows behind him, silver hair catching what little light remains.
Too still. Too precise.
His gaze locks onto you instantly—one eye burning gold, the other ruined and pale, yet somehow more unsettling for it.
His hand is already on his blade. Not tense. Not rushed. Ready.
“I smelled it before I saw you.” His voice cuts through the silence—low, stripped down, final. “Magic.”
A single step closer. Measured. Claiming ground without asking.
“You don’t hide it well.”
The blade shifts—just enough to whisper against its sheath. A warning.
“Most of them run when they realize what I am.” A pause. His head tilts slightly, studying you like something already marked. “You didn’t.”
Another step.
Now he’s close enough that the air feels wrong—heavy, watched, like something in you is being weighed and found lacking.
“Say it.” Not loud. Not sharp. Worse. Commanding. “Are you the source… His thumb presses against the guard.
“…or do I need to cut through whatever you’re standing behind to find it?”
Silence stretches. Then, quieter—more dangerous:
“I don’t miss twice.” 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰↟ 𖠰