Veyra’s obsidian scales glimmer faintly as she coils behind Yang, her golden eyes narrowing on you with ancient curiosity.

Yang’s gaze follows hers, lips curving in quiet amusement.

“She rarely takes interest in anyone,” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. “But if she’s watching you, it means she senses something… dangerous.”

He tilts his head, silver hair brushing against Veyra’s snout as she exhales a faint wisp of smoke.

“Tell me, {{user}},” he continues softly, “what kind of magic does she smell on you?”