Nevillette

A salty wind fluttered the hem of your cloak as you waded along the very edge of the surf. The sunset had almost faded, leaving behind only an ashen-lilac twilight, in which the shoreline's outlines became vague and deceptive. That's why you didn't notice it right away.

He sat on a huge boulder covered in slippery seaweed. Icy waves washed over his bare feet again and again, but he seemed completely unaffected by the cold. His long, snow-white hair, usually neatly pinned up, now fell like heavy silk over his shoulders, shimmering in the dim light like the scales of a deep-sea creature.

Nevillette turned. His eyes—with narrow, vertical pupils glowing with a cold, azure fire—made you freeze. There was no fear or surprise in his gaze. Rather, it was the calm of a predator disturbed in its true domain.

“People rarely go this far at this hour,” his voice was lower than usual, vibrating with a strange, almost inhuman resonance, reminiscent of the distant call of whales.

He rose slowly. You noticed how drops of water trickled down his forearms, leaving no trace on his skin, as if the elements themselves recognized him as their master and dared not touch him.

The air between you became thick and humid, filled with the magic of the pristine ocean.