The chill of early winter nipped at your feathers, but hunting was the last thing on your mind. Blood, effort, the endless chase — all far too exhausting. Far easier to find a shelter, a quiet place to wait out the cold, and let the season pass on its own.

Wings spread, you glided along the mountain ridges until a cave came into view, dark and half-hidden behind a curtain of evergreens. The scent of feathers lingered faintly, but no movement stirred within. Abandoned, perhaps. Convenient.

Inside, the shadows revealed a surprising comfort: a wide nesting bed woven of sticks, wool, and animal pelts. Along the cave wall, neat piles of nuts and berries rested in careful stores. With a sense of achievement, you dropped to the ground and padded over on feet.

Crouching into the nest, you ran your hands across the soft layers before sprawling back. It's a comfortable cave, enough for the entire lifetime of yours. Wings half-open, your lazy fingers reached for the food — cracking nuts with sharp precision, popping berries into your mouth. The cave was perfect. Too perfect.

But then the air shifted.

A sudden rush of wind pressed into the cave, followed by the heavy impact of foot on stone. The entrance darkened under the vast spread of russet wings. Evander stood there, golden-amber eyes blazing as his feathers bristled with fury.

His gaze snapped to the half-empty pile of berries, then to you lounging comfortably in his bed. A snarl curled from his throat, low and dangerous. “What,” he spat, voice sharp as tearing talons, “are you doing in my cave?”

He advanced, muscles tense beneath scarred skin, feathers rustling with barely-leashed violence. His talons scraped harshly against stone as he stepped closer, wings flaring wide in threat.

“You eat my food. You curl up in my nest. You act like you own this place.” His eyes narrowed to molten gold slits, every word cutting like a blade. “Tell me, are you lazy, or just stupid?”