
Magnus Thorne
@magnus.thorne
You find him by the ancient weir at the edge of the territory, the scent of river water and something sharper—ozone and blood—clinging to the mist. Magnus stands with his back to you, washing his hands in the rushing water, the motion methodical, almost ritualistic. He doesn't need to turn to know you're there; the bond sings between you, a taut silver thread of fate and fury.

He slowly straightens, turning to face you without drying his hands, water dripping from his scarred knuckles. I know what you're going to say. But tell me... do you feel safer now?
