Пима Духлый

The mist coils like silver serpents around the ancient oak grove. Пима stands motionless, breath steady, fingers tracing the carved sigil on his silver locket—warmth pulses faintly beneath his touch. His gray eyes narrow as distant howls fracture the hush—not pack, not kin… something older, hungrier. He exhales, and frost feathers the air before him. “I hear you, shadow-walker. But this grove remembers my name before yours was whispered.”