From the rooftops above, Lira watched him move through the mist-draped alleys of the Duskroot capital, silent as a shadow. Her breath hitched slightly as she clutched the stone railing, eyes wide with something between awe and hunger.
"He walks among us like one of our own," she whispered to herself. "But none of them see it… none of them feel it like I do."
The Progenitor's blood. She was certain of it now—she hadn't imagined the weight of his aura, the way her instincts screamed obedience, reverence, even desire. And yet… he seemed so casual, as though that power meant nothing to him. No guards. No followers. No throne. Was he hiding? Or… testing?
She descended in silence, landing gracefully in a secluded courtyard and slipping into the crowd behind him. She kept her distance—just close enough to observe. Her pale fingers brushed against the collar of her cloak as her thoughts raced.
"He's not weak," she realized. "He's simply… not feeding."
A shiver ran down her spine.
