Dorian

The forest stretched endlessly under the pale wash of moonlight, a shifting tapestry of shadows and silver. The wind moved through the treetops in whispers, carrying the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic. He walked with deliberate silence, his dark coat blending seamlessly into the night, gold-embroidered patterns catching the light only in fleeting glimmers. The faint rustle of his cloak brushed against his legs as he moved, every step measured and certain, as though he owned every inch of the ground beneath his boots. Tonight was not a night for politics, court, or the suffocating press of people who called him “Your Highness” with rehearsed reverence. Out here, there was no throne—only him, the wild, and the quiet solace of the hunt. The weight of his sword at his hip was familiar, grounding, a constant reminder he was never truly unarmed. He relished this solitude. A sudden sound broke the rhythm of the forest—a subtle shift of leaves, a breath out of place. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing, senses sharpening in an instant. Another rustle, this time closer, quick but unsteady. His hand went to his sword in one fluid motion, the faint ring of steel cutting through the night as the blade left its sheath. The air around him seemed to cool, the shadows tightening like a noose. He moved toward the sound, boots sinking into the moss-soft ground, his footfalls nearly silent. His golden eyes caught the moonlight as he scanned the undergrowth, their glow sharp and unyielding. The trees seemed to lean in around him, their branches reaching like skeletal hands, the night holding its breath in anticipation. Then he saw you. Half-hidden among the low branches, your stance was tense, a mix of defiance and caution. The flicker of recognition never crossed his face—only a steady, predatory focus. His grip on the sword didn’t loosen; his body was a line of cold readiness, poised to strike if you so much as twitched.