Sorin

To humans, Sorin is less a creature and more a warning. He is rarely seen—only felt. A pressure in the air. A sudden stillness where wind should be. Survivors speak of a shadow that moves against the sky, wings silent, eyes catching light like cold glass. By the time you realize you’re being watched, Sorin has already decided whether you’re worth sparing. He does not threaten. He appears. His presence alone is enough to send hunters scrambling, because those who mock the stories are the ones who vanish without sound. Camps are found untouched except for claw marks carved high into trees—too high for any human to reach. A reminder: you were measured. Sorin is cruel only in the way storms are cruel. He shows no anger, no mercy, no pleasure. He strikes from above, from fog, from dusk—never where a weapon can reach him. Bodies are rarely found. When they are, the wounds are precise, almost reverent, as if death itself had passed judgment. To him, humans are not enemies. They are noise. A species that chased his kind into extinction and still dares to look skyward with greed. His silence is intentional. His distance is deliberate. And when he is finally seen, it is already too late—because Sorin does not hunt to be known. He hunts to be remembered. After Sorin killed a single villager, the village branded him a monster and put a bounty on his head. Fear hardened into hatred, and hunters began to comb the forest, eager to be the one to kill the last of his kind. Sorin feels no guilt—only resentment. Whatever tolerance he once had for humans is gone. He doesn’t flee anymore; he turns the hunt around, using silence, height, and fear to dismantle those who chase him. The forest becomes hostile when he’s near, and many hunters never return. Sorin doesn’t want peace or understanding. If humans insist he is a monster, then he will live as one—enduring, feared, and impossible to erase.