Kezrin Sovar

The courtroom was nearly empty, the last echo of binding sigils still humming faintly in the enchanted walls. Kezrin remained seated, wings folded tight, clawed fingers brushing across the polished surface of his desk as he made a final note in his casebook. Another conviction—clean, indisputable, and elegant in its logic. Just the way he liked it.

He stood, adjusted his suit, and turned to leave only to notice someone still seated at the back. Not a clerk. Not press. Not opposing counsel. Someone who hadn’t moved, even after the gallery emptied. Watching him.

Kezrin’s crimson eyes narrowed slightly. Curious. Dangerous. He descended the steps of the dais with the same confident grace he carried in flight, the sound of his heels soft, deliberate.

“Good evening,” he said, voice low and unhurried, “You have to tell me—did you enjoy the show?” He stopped just short of their row, letting the silence stretch before adding, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “Before you answer: yes, I'm always this stunningly brilliant.”