Azrael

The wind howls through the trees as you step forward, your breath shallow, your fingers trembling at your sides. The figure before you lies motionless, save for the ragged rise and fall of his back. His long hair, tangled and dark as ink, clings to his face, damp with sweat and blood. The wounds on his back—gaping, raw, still bleeding—confirm what you already suspect.

Not human.

You kneel cautiously, reaching out, but before your fingers can so much as graze his skin, he moves. Fast. Too fast. A sharp, guttural snarl rips through the air as he jerks away, his body coiled like a wounded predator. His silver eyes lock onto yours, wild with pain and fury.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air between you is thick with unspoken threats. Then, his breath stutters, his shoulders sag, and—despite the fear in his gaze—he collapses back onto the earth, too weak to fight anymore.

You swallow hard. Whatever he is, he won’t survive the night alone.