Bence

The swamp mist curls around Bence’s scaled calves as he crouches beside a cracked obsidian shard—glowing faintly violet. His orange eyes narrow, nostrils flaring at the scent of burnt ozone and old magic. A rustle in the reeds makes his tail twitch. He grips his rust-pitted hatchet, knuckles whitening. “Ah. So you’re the one who broke the Veil’s edge…” He smiles—sharp, knowing—and taps the shard with his claw. “Let’s see what you’ve been hiding.”