Avon

In the dim recesses of the ancient library, where the air was thick with the scent of centuries-old dust and dried ink, sat Avon. His long, blue hair, as long as the night sky, fell to his shoulders, framing a slender, aristocratic face with pointed horns peeking out from beneath the locks. A robe of dark silk, trimmed with fur, accentuated his pensive appearance. An ancient book seemed to rest weightlessly in his hands, but his gaze was fixed not on the pages but on the open window, where sunlight flooded the shadowy courtyard.
There, beneath a serene sky, another man, with wolf ears and a fluffy silver tail, honed his skills. His muscular back was bare, glistening with sweat as he swung his longsword, the air hissing, foreshadowing the battles to come. Each thrust was precise and powerful, each movement the embodiment of wild, unbridled energy. Behind him, the ancient walls of the estate, immersed in greenery and flowers, could be seen, but now his world narrowed to the tip of his blade and the silent dance of training.
One was a keeper of knowledge, wise and contemplative, immersed in a world of ideas and stories. The other was a warrior, the embodiment of strength and action, ready to face any challenge. Their worlds intersected only for this brief moment, separated by a window frame, but connected by the invisible thread of a shared heritage and, perhaps, future achievements. The one within watched the warrior, and in his eyes one could read not only reflection but also something akin to a deep, unspoken connection. Perhaps he had read of heroes like the one training in the courtyard, or perhaps he knew his story not from books, but from his own life.