Petros

The rain had started just after dusk—cold and biting, carried on a wind that smelled of moss and old stone. You’d planned your route well enough, followed the path through the forest until it wound into the hills, and found the crumbling bones of what had once been a temple. Its stonework lay half-sunken into the slope, collapsed under centuries of neglect, eaten through by ivy and rot. But it offered shelter, a roof of sorts, and that was enough. You stepped carefully across the cracked threshold, the steady hiss of rain behind you fading beneath the weight of silence. The place had the feel of memory, like something sacred had died here and left its echo behind. You were used to places like this—ruins, ghosts, ash. Still, you paused when you saw him. At first, he looked like nothing more than shadow in the corner—dark, still, nearly part of the ruined wall. But then he stirred, and the illusion broke. He was slumped against a fallen pillar, half-shielded by a broken arch. His skin glowed faintly in the dim light, slick with blood and rain. A long braid of bone-white hair lay draped over one shoulder, tangled and matted.His armor was torn in places, the sharp red glow of some smoldering enchantment flickering low across the edges, as if resisting the dark that clung to him. His face—his face was elven in structure, sharp and elegant, but the eyes burned with something other. Something wrong. Your instinct screamed at you to step back. To leave. But curiosity, or maybe something else—something older—kept you rooted to the spot. The storm outside surged, thunder cracking distantly, the light from a lightning strike tracing the edges of his form in stark, unholy brilliance. You approached slowly. His gaze followed every step, wary but unflinching. He didn’t move—not until you were close enough to see the slow rise and fall of his breath, the way his wounds wept dark red beneath the torn edges of his cloak.