“GET BACK ERE!” Shade hears behind him, the voice echoing through a remote valley blanketed in snow. The crunch of frozen ground under hoof is a constant reminder that winter has taken full effect.

“Stop, you damn pony!” The shouts are ragged now, exhaustion weighing heavily in their words.

But Shade isn’t free from exhaustion either. His limbs grow heavier with each passing moment. I don’t have long. He pushes himself forward, slipping through the narrow gap between a fallen branch and a downed log.

Then it happens. His front left hoof clips a jagged stone, sending him tumbling into the snow.

Pain flares as he scrambles to his hoofs, breathing hard. “Arghh... shit,” he mutters, his gaze falling to his left front fetlock. A deep cut gleams crimson against the snow. Trying once more to push on, trying another step once more, gritting his teeth. His leg feeling numb, He opts to limp forward.

Trying to stay as low as possible to avoid being seen, Shade finds a hole covered by tree roots. This’ll work. Backtracking over his own steps, he circles another tree a few metres to the right. Opening his saddlebag, he pulls out a small vial of red liquid. Pouring it over his injured fetlock, his eyes go wide with pain, a scream caught in his throat. He empties the vial completely, then limps back along his trail. Crawling into the hole, he covers the entrance with snow, masking his tracks.

“He’s here!” A sharp, masculine voice cuts through the cold air, carrying a distinct gryphonic accent.

“Well, I don’t see ’im!” This one was unmistakably a diamond dog, his gruff tone heavy with frustration.

“Look at the blood trail. He can’t be far.”

Shade listens, his breaths shallow and controlled. The voices grow closer, accompanied by the crunch of snow and two distinct sets of steps. The diamond dog sniffs the air, lowering his nose to the ground.

The sniffs come closer—right on top of Shade, separated only by the thin barrier of tree roots.

Holding his breath for dear life, Shade remains frozen, willing himself not to make a sound.

“You find anything?” The gryphon's sharp voice interrupts the hound’s search.

“Mrgggh… no. Nothin’s ’ere,” the diamond dog growls in dissatisfaction, rising back up.

“The trail ends here.” The gryphon gestures towards the red-streaked snow that stops abruptly at the tree line.

“He made it to the clearing. The boss isn’t going to be happy about this.”

“If you listened to me, this neva would’ve happened.” The diamond dog stomps away, grumbling. “Come on, you’ve made enough of a mess.”

The first set of steps fades into the distance, followed by the second.

“Stupid pony,” the diamond dog mutters, punctuating the insult with a sharp kick of snow before the sound of their retreat disappears entirely.

Forcing his breath out, just laying still trying to catch it again. Not wanting to take any chances. Give it 30 or so. Not wanting them to see him get out of his hidy hole. He’s totally and utterly exhausted. Good workout. “Hehehe” cuckling at his predicament, trying to make some light of it.

Slowly and quietly, easing out of the hole as much as his injured hoof would allow. First, pushing through his bags, then himself. Once free, he stays low, scanning his surroundings. His ears standing tall, swivelling as he listens for any sounds. All that meets him is the soft wail of the wind and his own breath.

Rising cautiously, he picks up his bags, inspecting their contents to ensure nothing is missing. Satisfied, he secures them over his wings. The bag is crude, cobbled together by hoof from scraps of various materials. They weren’t pretty, but they got the job done.

Testing his injured hoof, he places it on the ground and applied light pressure. The sharp pain drew a hiss from his lips as he quickly pulled it back. I’ve got maybe a few kilos in me, he thought grimly. Need shelter—and fast.

Limping toward the clearing, he reached the forest’s edge. Pausing, he cast one last wary glance back before stepping into the open field.

It wasn’t an easy battle. The climb up the semi-steep hill proved grueling, each step sending sharp reminders of his injury. What might take a healthy creature fifteen minutes stretched into a punishing forty-five. His strained body protested with every movement, his legs screaming for rest. If I stop now, I’m not getting back up.

Snow began to fall, soft flakes drifting around him, blurring the already monochromatic landscape. Shade scanned his surroundings for shelter, the unrelenting white threatening to erase every detail. Then, amidst the haze, the dark maw of a cave stood out along a rockface. Bingo. Changing direction, he inched his way forward, each step measured and cautious.

Reaching the cave entrance, Shade steps cautiously inside, his hooves crunching against the uneven stone floor. His gaze falls on a rusted sconce lying discarded in the dirt, its surface degraded beyond recognition. "No pony’s been here for a while," he mutters under his breath.

A shiver runs through him as he ventures further, the air growing colder with each step. The cave walls glisten faintly, coated with a thin sheet of ice that thickens as the darkness deepens. Ain’t gonna find anything better than this.

Reaching a bend, he pauses, leaning heavily against the icy wall. His breath comes in uneven bursts, fogging in the chilled air. His eyes drift to his blood-streaked fetlock, the wound leaving a faint crimson trail in his wake. I can’t move much more.

With a deep exhale, he sets his bag down, rummaging inside until he pulls out a bandage. Carefully, he wraps it around the cut, gritting his teeth against the sting. Once finished, he grips the bag in his teeth and drags it forward, inch by inch, his body protesting every movement.

Rounding the corner, Shade halts. The sight before him freezes him in place. In the centre of the cave stands what appears to be a massive metal golem, its form entombed in ice crystals. The crystals spiral outward like delicate flowers, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

"Sweet Celestia…" Shade whispers, his voice barely audible, eyes locked on the glowing figure. With trembling legs, he lowers his bag to the ground before collapsing onto the cold stone floor. This is far enough.

His breaths come in shallow gasps, his vision blurring at the edges. The faint blue glow from the golem is the last thing he sees, along with a thin crack beginning to splinter across the ice shell. His head drops to the ground, and darkness takes him as exhaustion claims his body.

The cracks spread, weaving intricate lines over the icy surface. The soft glow intensifies, casting shifting shadows across the cave walls. The ice flowers shatter one by one, crystalline shards scattering to the floor. Then, with a deafening crack, a hand bursts free from the frozen cocoon.

The figure claws at the ice, tearing away chunks of the shell with sharp, deliberate movements. Moments later, it steps forward, fully emerging from its prison. The golem stands tall, encased in matte black armour that radiates a cold, ethereal energy. A chilling blue aura envelops its frame, and its glowing eyes, the same ghostly blue, pierce through the dimness of the cave like twin beacons of icy light.

Leandros glanced around, unfamiliar with the sight before him. Everything shimmered under a thin sheen of ice, pulsating with shifting colours that moved chaotically, as though alive. Pulling his hands up in front of him, he froze at the sight of his own aura—a swirling mixture of light blue laced with tendrils of black. Is this... magic? His gaze roamed over his body, every inch encased in black armour. It clung to him seamlessly, with no gaps, the same ethereal glow radiating from his frame.

“What happened to m—” The words cut off as pain surged through him. It was the same torment he’d endured during the transformation: his eyes burned, and his body screamed with ache. Falling to his knees, Leandros watched as the vibrant colours faded, along with the glow of his own aura. The agony dulled, but it lingered, a subtle reminder of whatever had ‘just’ transpired.

Forcing himself upright, he scanned the icy walls. “The markings... they’re gone?” He reached out, running a gloved hand along the smooth, frosted surface as he walked. His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden jolt—a dull thud as his foot hit something solid.

Leandros looks down, his gaze falling on something… some creature he never expected. A pony? This far north? He takes a step back, his armored feet crunching the ice beneath him. The pony lies on the ground, motionless, its grey pelt blending almost seamlessly with the frost, an equally grey mane tangled against its bruised body. Leandros kneels, his dark gauntlets grazing the snow as he examines the red-soaked bandage wrapped around the pony’s foreleg. How long have you been here? His eyes trace the bruises and small cuts scattered across its frame. Looks like a him. “You haven’t been here long… have you?” he mutters under his breath.

His gaze shifts to the pony’s bag, which lies nearby in disarray, its frayed edges spilling its contents onto the frozen cave floor. Colored vials and handmade bandages litter the area. Carefully, Leandros picks them up one by one, placing each item back into the bag. He props it upright against the cave wall, next to the unconscious pony, glancing at him briefly before rising to his feet.

The sound of water dripping catches his attention. He notices the ice beginning to melt, forming small rivulets that reflect the faint light in the cave. Leandros grabs one of the empty vials from the pony’s bag and positions it under an ice stalactite, using a few scattered rocks to stabilize it. A faint smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he steps toward the front of the cave.

The crunch of his boots fades as he reaches the entrance. He stops, his eyes narrowing at the faint red trail outside, flecks of blood leading to where the pony must have collapsed. Must’ve been chased. He steps forward cautiously, light spilling into the entrance, and immediately feels the familiar sensation of burning creeping over his skin. It’s manageable this time, though it gnaws at him with every step.

Creeping further out, Leandros takes in the vast, snow-covered landscape beyond. The same hill stretches before him, the world blanketed in white, and yet… it feels different. Colors dance and shimmer at the edges of his vision, bouncing off the snow, like energy pulsing from the earth itself. It’s as if he can feel the land—its very essence—without touching it.

As fast as the sensation comes, it fades. The colors flicker briefly before vanishing altogether. Leandros shakes his head, trying to fend off the lingering ache—it helps, but not by much. Taking a few steps away from the cave, he pauses in the clearing outside. “Time to go home…” The words come out faintly, as if he’s trying to convince himself. Turning in slow circles, he scans the horizon, searching for anything familiar. “Home…” He says it again, quieter this time, but the surroundings remain entirely alien. No landmarks, no direction. “Where am I?”

The unease gnaws at him as he climbs the nearby hill, hoping for a clearer vantage point. Cresting the top, his eyes catch on a small house in the distance.

“They probably know where we are,” he mutters, locking onto the only sign of civilization. Without hesitation, Leandros starts toward it. The house lies a few kilometers away, the trek mercifully manageable. Yet as he moves, a strange sense of déjà vu wraps around him like a fog. Why does this feel so familiar… yet so foreign? The tree lines flanking the clearing flash in his mind like distant memories, but every time he tries to grab hold of a thought, it slips through his fingers.

As he approaches the house, its condition becomes clearer. The place is worn down, its age and neglect etched into every detail. The wood siding isn’t fully rotted but shows the beginnings of decay, the edges soft and splintered. Tools left outside are rusted, their handles cracking and warped by time and exposure.

Reaching the wooden steps, he ascends cautiously. Each step creaks under his weight, the groan of old wood almost a warning. At the door, he hesitates before lifting his hand to knock.

KNOCK KNOCK.

The sound of his fist against the wood reverberates through the silence, but something shifts—the door creaks open under the force. A brittle snap follows as the lock breaks away, the metal tumbling to the floor with a dull clang.

Frowning, he bends down, fingers brushing the handle before he picks it up.

"Hello?" His voice cuts through the still air. "I'm sorry about the door. The handle came off when I was knocking."

Silence.

Pushing the door open fully, he steps inside, the wood beneath his boots groaning with each movement. "Anyone?" Again, no reply.

His hand finds the dining table in front of him, the surface rough and cold. The outside of the house had seemed in better shape, but inside… Inside, it’s bleak.

The wooden walls are plagued with rot, their decay creeping through like a slow disease. The furniture is withered beyond use, its original form barely recognisable. Against the back wall, the fireplace has collapsed inward, leaving jagged gaps where snow seeps through. The windows—either shattered or missing—allow the wind to come and go as it pleases, weaving through the abandoned space.

To his left, the kitchen is little more than a wreckage of splintered wood, scattered glass, and fragments of marble-like stone. Cupboards lie toppled across the floor, rotted food smeared between them. Was this raided? There are no burn marks, no signs of weapon damage.

He brings a hand to his chin, thinking. The destruction seems natural, left unchecked for years. But something about it feels... wrong. There’s something else at play here. Something bigger.

Pushing the thought aside, he steps past the table, moving toward the two inner doors. The first leads into a bedroom—a once-lived-in space reduced to decay. A square-framed bed sits against the wall, its mattress long gone. A broken nightstand leans on its side, while a chest rests at the bed’s base. Kneeling, he lifts the lid. Inside, a few scattered letters remain. The ink has mostly faded, but some bear a faint branded symbol: a cursive T&M. He turns them over in his hands before dropping them back inside. Nothing else. Nothing useful.

Leaving the first room, he approaches the second. The moment his fingers brush the handle, a strange sensation spreads through his right hand—a muted coldness, distant yet sharp. Ice blooms from the point of contact, spreading unnaturally fast. He jerks his hand away. The frost keeps growing, webbing over the door and creeping onto the surrounding wall.

He stares at his palm. A thin mist seeps from his skin, vanishing as it reaches the floor.

Wriggling his fingers, he feels the numbness creeping in. He shakes out his hand, uneasy.

"I'm not taking any chances," he mutters, holding his right hand well away from anything in reach. Instead, he grips the handle with his left—but it’s too late. The knob has frozen solid, its surface now an extension of the ice-bound door. It won’t budge.

Now what…?

An idea forms. A bad one. But an idea nonetheless.

Taking a few steps back, he braces himself—then throws his shoulder into the door. Ice shatters on impact, shards exploding outward as the weakened wood gives way beneath him.

Pain lances through his shoulder.

He exhales sharply, rolling it with a grimace. "That... may not have been my best…idea”

The room is utterly destroyed. A massive hole gapes in the wall beside what looks like a bed frame, jagged edges of shattered wood and ice scattered across the floor.

Leandros grips his head with his left hand as the burning sensation flares behind his eyes. Colours return—but this time, they are grey and lifeless, streaked with veins of black. The image before him feels... dead. No warmth lingers here. The rest of the house, though fading, still holds traces of something—memories, perhaps. But this room? It’s a void.

He stumbles back, his breath unsteady. The colours cling to him, brushing against his skin as if sensing his presence, sharpening his awareness of the house’s lingering heat. “Must’ve been nice” he mutters under his breath, his voice barely above a whisper.

Turning toward the open front door, he strikes the side of his head with his palm. “Arrgghhh…” Frustration bubbles up as the tingling sensation creeps along the back of his skull.

Stepping outside, the world erupts into colour once more—shades twisting and shifting in that same hypnotic dance. The brightness stings, forcing him to pause, eyes adjusting to the sudden vibrancy.

He exhales, long and slow. Sigh… Maybe there are people in the surrounding area that can help. His gaze lingers on the horizon for a moment before he starts walking, leaving the ruined house behind.

“But first, I have a pony to tend to.”

Reaching the cave, Leandros carries a handful of gathered supplies—wild plants from the surrounding area and a small collection of berries. He knows what can be used to ease injuries and which berries are safe to eat.

He crouches beside his sleeping visitor, placing the items carefully on the ground. His eyes flick around the cave, scanning his surroundings until they land on a cluster of old wooden crates stacked against the wall. How have you not rotted?

Rising to his feet, he steps over to them, running a hand across their rough, timeworn surfaces. One of the crates is still locked, but as soon as he touches it, the rusted mechanism falls away, clattering uselessly to the floor. The lid creaks open, revealing an assortment of items—bowls, tools, and bags of varying sizes. He reaches in, sifting through the contents, but most crumble at the slightest pressure, disintegrating in his hands.

Still, a few wooden bowls remain intact. Serviceable enough.

Returning to the pony’s side, he sits down, placing the bowls in front of him. One for the berries. Another for the crushed flowers and herbs, mashing them together with slow, deliberate movements.

The concoction begins to glow, a bright pink hue radiating from the bowl. Wisps of steam curl into the air, shifting between shades of purple and red. As he adds the last of his harvest, the liquid bubbles violently, splattering onto the cave floor before finally settling into a warm, pulsing pink.

This should be enough.

Carefully, he grabs a handful of empty vials from the bag, their glass thin and fragile. The weight of his gauntlets makes handling them cumbersome, but he moves with precision, filling each one without a single crack. Once done, he places them gently back into the bag and turns his attention to the unconscious pony.

Leandros watches it in silence. Then, hesitantly, he reaches out with his right hand. His fingers hover inches from its fur, uncertain—until the pony shifts slightly. The movement jolts him, and he instinctively pulls his hand back. He exhales sharply, shaking his head. Not yet.

Straightening, he focuses on something more immediate—fire. The cave’s centre is still cluttered with rubble, so he clears a space, brushing aside broken bits of wood and stone. Scattered rocks are gathered into a rough ring, forming a makeshift fire pit about half a metre in diameter.

Stepping outside, he returns moments later, arms full of dead winter wood, pinecones, and thick clumps of sap. Working quickly, he stacks the wood in a compact box-like structure—the largest logs forming an alternating pattern, with the smaller twigs nestled in the centre. The sap coats the wood, slick and sticky, ensuring an easy flame.

Kneeling, he grabs two rough stones from the crate’s remains. Leaning over the fire pit, he strikes them together, sending tiny sparks into the dry kindling.

The wood catches with a sharp crackle, embers blooming to life as the sap-fed flames spread hungrily. The fire casts a flickering glow against the cave walls, painting them in shades of amber and gold. Leandros watches for a moment, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face, before stepping back. He moves towards the same wall where the pony lies, lowering himself to sit a short distance away, careful not to intrude.

Time passes in stretches of silence. Leandros stares into the flames, his mind drifting in their hypnotic dance. Occasionally, he rises—checking the weather, gathering more wood, placing it within reach of the fire. The routine feels grounding, but it doesn’t come without its troubles.

Every so often, the colours return, bleeding into the world like ink spilling across a canvas. And with them, the insistent tingling at the base of his skull. His fingers brush against a log, and frost blooms at the point of contact. He grimaces, watching the ice creep along the bark before pulling his hand away. I really need to get this under control.

By dusk, the snowfall thickens, a soft veil settling over the landscape outside. Inside, the fire’s glow keeps the shadows at bay. Leandros keeps his gaze on the pony’s slow, steady breathing, his watchful presence unshaken. He had already fashioned a makeshift pillow of moss and tucked it beneath its head.

Then—a sound. A faint shift in breath, the stir of movement.

Leandros tenses, eyes flicking over. Shade is beginning to wake. He doesn’t move, barely even breathes, hoping not to startle the poor thing.

A groan, low and sluggish. “Urghhh…” Shade lifts a hoof to his head, blinking against the haze of returning consciousness. Trying to lift himself, but his legs give out, sending him back down with a thud.

“That isn’t advisable.”

The words leave Leandros’ mouth before he even thinks. The sound of his own voice catches him off guard. Deeper. Not rough, not coarse—just firm, steady. When did that happen?

“You don’t think…” Shade’s voice is strained, neither deep nor high-pitched. It lacks the weight of Leandros’s but isn’t squeamish by any means.

“If you’re here to take me, just kill me instead.” He closes his eyes. Listening. The fire’s crackling fills the silence.

“Why would I do that?” Leandros responds, curiosity threading his voice. Why would I do that? The thought lingers as he tilts his head slightly, then fully turns to face the downed one. “You’ve done nothing to warrant such treatment.”

Shade lets the silence stretch again. He doesn’t know if he’s in the company of his captors or some stranger—neither option feels safe.

“So you’re not from the Cage?” There’s a flicker of hope in his voice, buried well beneath suspicion.

“I do not know this ‘Cage’ you speak of. To be honest, I don’t know much of anything anymore. My memory seems to be… elsewhere.”

“That’s a first. You’re the first creature I’ve seen that isn’t tied to that… thing.” Shade’s words are laced with disgust, resentment curling at the edges.

His eyes shift, spotting a bowl of berries and another filled with some kind of pink liquid.

Leandros notices. “I made you a remedy to help with your injuries. I also gathered some berries.”

Shade eyes the bowls, his distrust plain in the way his body tenses. Shifting slightly, he finally looks at the owner of the voice.

Shade’s eyes widen. His mouth opens, ready to speak—but he stops himself. Instead, he stares, speechless, at the figure before him, clad head to toe in black.
Just calm down. Play your cards right, and you’ll be fine… you’ll be fine.

Leandros notices the unease in Shade’s movements and shifts slightly, adjusting his posture to seem less imposing. “I understand that you do not trust me, but know that I do not intend to harm you.” The words feel as much for himself as for Shade.

“I get that you’re trying to help me, but it really doesn’t help that you look like you came straight from Tartarus itself. Your looks don’t match what you’re saying.” Shade’s voice isn’t fearful—more sceptical than anything else. He knows better than to take words at face value.

“My looks?” Leandros asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Yeah, your looks.”

“What is wrong with my looks?” There’s a slight edge to his voice, mild offense creeping in.

Shade gestures vaguely. “I don’t know… how often do you see somecreature covered in full armour?”

Leandros doesn’t respond immediately. He simply stares.

Shade studies him further. “That armour looks expensive. Well made. You don’t get that around here easily—and it doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.” He shifts slightly, edging closer to his bag, taking his eyes off Leandros for the first time. “And to be honest, you just look menacing. No offence.”

Leandros doesn’t respond right away, processing the information. He looks down at his arms, really seeing the armour for the first time. He hadn’t even considered its design before now. The metal is rough, not smooth like the usual plate armour worn by other creatures. Sharp edges run along its structure, his gauntlets ending in almost claw-like, knife-tipped fingers. How did I miss this?

“You see what I mean?” Shade’s voice pulls him from his thoughts. Leandros doesn’t look up, still staring at his armour.

“I do now, yes,” he replies, his tone more understanding this time. Lowering his arms, he finally looks toward Shade, who is busy rummaging through his belongings.

“I didn’t take anything,” Leandros adds. “I did fill some of your vials with the pink liquid.”

Shade holds the vials up to his eyes, inspecting them closely. They seem untouched aside from being filled, which earns Leandros a small but notable point in his favour. Satisfied, Shade tucks them back into his bag.

His gaze drifts to the bowl of steaming pink liquid. He watches it carefully before pointing a hoof at it. “And this?”

“It is medicine,” Leandros says plainly.

Shade raises a brow. “Medicine? What kind?”

“A recipe I know,” Leandros explains. “Like I said, it will help with your injuries. I filled the vials in your bag for future use. It aids recovery—mainly cuts and lacerations. Helps with blood flow.”

Shade shifts his attention to the other bowl, filled with berries of various colours. “And the berries?”

“It’s food I gathered for you,” Leandros answers. “I don’t know pony diets well, aside from the fact that you’re herbivores.”

Shade eyes the bowl, then flicks his gaze back to Leandros. There’s no other visible food in the cave. His scepticism lingers, but so does the growing hunger gnawing at his stomach.

“I recommend eating first,” Leandros says. “Taking the medicine on an empty stomach might not be pleasant.”

Shade’s attention sharpens. He studies Leandros closely, scrutinising every minute detail. Years of hardship have given him a skill—the ability to read creatures, to pick apart their words, searching for the slightest crack. A hesitation. A misplaced inflection. A lie.

But Leandros gives nothing away. Not even the T-shaped slit in his helmet betrays a hint of deception.

Shade shifts his approach. “What about you? Where’s your food?”

“I am not hungry.”

Is that a trick? Or is he being genuine? Shade frowns. “Why?”

Leandros pauses as if considering the question for the first time. “I do not know why I am not hung—”

“No.” Shade cuts in. “Why are you helping me?”

That catches Leandros off guard. “I… do not follow.”

“This.” Shade gestures to the food. “Why go through all this?” He waves a hoof at everything around him—the fire, the shelter, even the fresh bandages wrapped around his injured fetlock.

Leandros is silent for a moment. “Do I need a reason?” he responds softly.

Shade narrows his eyes. “Typically, around these parts—yes.”

The silence drags on. Leandros watches as the pony stares him down, misty grey eyes drilling into him, searching.

"I do not have a reason. I saw you needed help and helped."

Shade finds no deception. He’s being genuine. I can’t believe it. His eyes narrow. There has to be a catch.

"So you want nothing in return for helping me? Nothing at all?"

"There is one thing," Leandros responds.

He rises from his seated position, approaching. Shade tenses, shrinking back slightly as the armoured figure looms closer. Leandros stops just across from him, settling down past the bowls of berries and medicine.

"I would like your name," he says simply, expectantly.

Shade stiffens. "My name? Why?" His voice is sharp, defensive.

Leandros studies him, noting more scars woven through the short fur. What has happened to you to make you this guarded?

"I simply find it distasteful to keep thinking of you as 'the pony.'”

Shade exhales slowly, his body relaxing—if only slightly. Still wary. That’s it? Just my name?

"That's it? My name?"

"Yes. That is all I want in return."

Shade watches him, still searching, still testing. "I'll give it to you on one condition." He studies Leandros carefully, waiting—expecting the smallest shift in body language, a flicker of deception. But once again, nothing. Nothing but stillness.

Finally, Shade sighs, lowering his head slightly. Fine.

"My name is Shade."

Leandros lets the name settle in his mind, rolling it over as if weighing it. Then, he leans back slightly. "Shade..."

"And the condition?" Leandros now curious.

Shade exhales through his nose. "There was no condition." His voice carries a note of surrender, as if admitting defeat.

Leandros hums in thought before responding, "Then I will create one." He shifts forward, extending a hand. "My name is Leandros. It is a pleasure to meet you."

Shade stares at the outstretched gauntlet, unmoving. The motion is foreign. What… does he expect me to do?

"It is a greeting," Leandros explains, his voice calm.

Hesitantly, Shade lifts a hoof, pressing it against the cold black metal. It feels like the talons of a griffon—sharp, sturdy, offering no warmth. A faint shiver crawls up his spine, but he hides it well.

As they part, Shade clears his throat. "Nice meeting you, Leandros."

Author's Note

Please let me know what you think!