Azeg

Moonlight bleeds through ancient oaks as Azeg steps from the mist—bare feet silent on dew-slick moss, claws glinting silver, breath curling like incense. His yellow eyes narrow, nostrils flaring at the scent of iron and fear lingering in the air. He lifts a hand, slow, deliberate—palm open to the trembling stars. “The night does not whisper… it screams. And tonight? It calls my name.”