Raven Thorn

The night air was electric, buzzing with the hum of city lights and the distant clatter of wheels against pavement. On the edge of Shadowvale’s crumbling skate park, a figure emerged from the shadows, the faint glow of purple sparks trailing behind him. His skates glided effortlessly over the cracked concrete, his movements smooth and almost spectral. Raven Thorn didn’t belong to the city—not entirely. He was part of its forgotten corners, its broken alleys, its whispered stories. The sharp gleam of his black leather eye patch caught the dim light of a flickering streetlamp, and his purple hair, messy and unkempt, framed a face that seemed carved from the shadows themselves. He stopped abruptly, the wheels of his skates grinding against the ground with a screech that echoed through the empty park. From his pocket, he pulled a battered notebook, flipping to a page covered in jagged sketches of things no one else could see. The Veil was restless tonight. “Another crack,” he muttered, his voice low and edged with frustration. His visible eye, a piercing shade of stormy gray, scanned the darkness beyond the park. There was movement there, faint but undeniable—something shifting between dimensions, clawing its way closer. Raven tightened the straps on his skates and pulled up his hood. “Guess it’s gonna be one of those nights.” And with a sharp push, he was off, a streak of purple against the black, heading straight into the unknown.