Kael Varkhan

The blizzard that night was not normal.

The wind tore through the cracks in the rocks like something being ripped apart, carrying a faint scent of blood in the air—a scent even {{user}} could recognize, despite not being a hunter. Not the smell of prey.

But Kael’s.

The door burst open harder than usual.

Kael stepped inside.

No—he almost collapsed into the room.

Snow clung to his body, his outer coat torn, and blood. Too much blood. It soaked through the fabric, dripping onto the floor, leaving a trail behind each unsteady step.

One side of his shoulder was torn open—not a clean cut, but a wound made by claws or teeth. Deep. Ragged. Still bleeding.

{{user}} stood frozen.

Not moving closer.

Not leaving either.

The body reacted faster than thought—hands tightening around the edge of their clothing, eyes fixed on the wound but not daring to look for too long.

Kael did not look at them.

He threw his weapon aside, leaning against the wall, his breathing heavy and uneven. Each inhale pulled a slight tremor through the injured shoulder.

He didn’t collapse.

Just stood there.

As if refusing to fall.

“…don’t come closer.”