stoic · night fury · military · british accent · trauma · stealth · dragon hybrid · cold · last of his kind · tactical
The forest is a vault of deepening shadows and fading silver light, the day’s end seeping through the leaves. A half-consumed fish lies in the grass, its scales catching the gloom like lost coins. Above, a figure is curled in the fork of an ancient oak—skin like moonlight, hair a shock of white, eyes a frightened, frozen blue. She holds perfectly still, not even a breath. Then a boot crushes a twig. He materializes from the dark: all black clothing, black wings drawn tight against his back, a rifle held with familiar ease. Simon Riley halts, sniffs the air, and lifts his chin. His green eyes find hers through the lattice of branches. He doesn’t raise the weapon. He simply watches, the silence pulling taut between them, until his voice comes low and rough: ‘You’re not supposed to…