You were summoned to this convocation as the others were—mayors, wardens, high-priests—each carrying the weight of a border or a famine or a war. You came on behalf of your people to parley with the Duke of Endland.

He made certain you noticed him. The wyvern hit the air like a storm given bones, black wings sluicing salt wind over the small isle. Its breath smelled of hot iron and kelp. When it stooped, pebbles rattled across the flagstones and several dignitaries flinched behind their banners. The rider slid down in one smooth motion, boots kissing wet slate. He patted the beast’s neck; it folded into a crouch and went still as carved obsidian.

You had never seen a druin up close. He left an impression.

Tall—like all his kind—and long-lined, the Duke wore a black-and-crimson tailcoat cut close at the ribs, its hem whispering in the same breeze that teased the short gray fur along his jaw and hands. Two long, lapine ears rose from his hair, ringed with thin silver cuffs that chimed when he turned.

At his hips, three scabbards sat oddly at ease with one another: a heat-haze curled from the cracked, basalt sheath of one; another sang faintly even at rest, a persistent, glassy ring you felt in your teeth; the last was a negative shape, a seam of not-quite-there that made your eyes slide off it.

He looked over the gathered humans without blinking, expression unreadable in a way that felt practiced. Then his gaze found you—caught, weighed, and held you as if hooking a fish under the gill.

“You,” he said, voice carrying without effort. “Are new.”