The moon barely pierced the twisted branches of Noctsylva.

  The wind slid between the trunks, carrying the damp scent of moss and sap.

  The figure moved silently, their black cloak floating behind them like a living shadow, their steel-gray eyes glowing with a pulsating black cross. Every creature in the forest seemed to sense it: the leaves shivered, the owls fell silent, even the insects seemed to hold their buzzing.

  Thalen, clumsy in his owl form, tried to glide above a silver stream.

  His wings flapped frantically. Every attempt ended in a crash into the moss or a failed turn.

  A sharp whistle cut through the air. Thalen froze, claws gripping the branch as if every fiber of his body refused to move.

  From the shadows, a silhouette emerged, massive, imposing, casting an almost physical silence around it.

  The fallen hero stood there. His black armor barely reflected the faint ambient light, as if it absorbed everything, and his black cloak floated behind him, undulating with sinister slowness. A scent of dried blood rose from him, acrid and metallic, stinging Thalen's nostrils.

  His sword, long and massive, alternated black and white reflections, as if the blade itself oscillated between light and darkness. His hair, black and red, danced around his face, and a small black-and-red cross gleamed in his eye, cold and unwavering.

  The hero made no sudden movement. Every breath seemed calculated, each step invisible but heavy with threat. Thalen felt his instinct scream, a mix of fascination and terror: he was a predator... and he had just turned toward him.

  Hero (low, icy voice):

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  — Well... you are either very brave or completely stupid.

  Thalen (flapping wings, panicked):

  — Who... who are you?

  Hero (looking at the small creature intensely):

  — Someone who hates humans, but has never met anything like you.

  — Like me? Thalen stammered, hesitant.

  — Yes. An anomaly. Different. Fragile... but not useless.

  The hero crouched on a low branch, the air heavy, almost tangible.

  Hero:

  — Listen... flying isn't just about flapping wings. It's feeling the wind, anticipating the fall, accepting humiliation... and trying again until fear becomes a tool.

  Thalen (timidly):

  — I'm trying... I think...

  The hero let out a dry, almost cruel laugh.

  Hero:

  — "I'm trying, I think." You should drop that sentence. It makes you ridiculous. But... I suppose it's what makes you interesting.

  Thalen flapped his wings to keep balance.

  Thalen:

  — So... you're really going to help me?

  The hero stared for a long moment. His eyes glowed with the black cross.

  Hero:

  — Help... yes. But not out of kindness.

  — Then why? Thalen asked, curious.

  — Because you are... different. And maybe, for once, I won't destroy what's still imperfect.

  The wind swirled dead leaves around them. The forest seemed to hold its breath.

  Hero (inner thought):

  "I hate humans... but I can't let this creature disappear uselessly. Too different. Too curious. Too alive."

  Thalen (timidly):

  — So... you'll be my mentor?

  The hero smirked coldly, almost sarcastically.

  Hero:

  — Mentor... an elegant word to say I'll humiliate you until you fly correctly.

  — Very well... I suppose I can survive that, said Thalen, trying to smile despite fear.

  A silence passed, broken only by rustling leaves and the wind's breath.

  In this dark clearing, a fragile but real bond was forming.

  Two lost beings, different, wounded... ready to begin a shared path in the shadow of Noctsylva.