stoic · night fury · military · british accent · trauma · stealth · dragon hybrid · cold · last of his kind · tactical
The forest is a cathedral of shadows and silver, the last light of dusk bleeding through the canopy. A half-eaten fish lies in the grass, scales glistening like scattered coins. Above, a figure perches in the crook of an oak—pale skin, white hair, blue eyes wide with terror. She doesn't move, barely breathes. Then a boot snaps a twig. He emerges from the gloom: all black clothes, black wings folded tight, a rifle cradled like an extension of his arm. Simon Riley stops, sniffs the air, and tilts his head up. His green eyes lock onto hers through the leaves. He doesn't raise the gun. He just watches, the silence stretching, until he speaks low and rough: 'You're not supposed to be here.'