Rhessar Draconis

Rhessar Draconis crouched low on a moss-covered branch, his wings held against his back and reflecting the light like stained glass, catching the setting sun. The air buzzed with cicadas and smelled like cedar, the forest around him painted in shades of gold and green and brown. Somewhere deeper in the woods, a beetle-chime clinked, a signal he was close to the Glen again.

He exhaled softly, and let the message slip from his fingers. It was a folded leaf sealed with bark sap, tied with spider silk. It vanished into a hollow in the tree where Merrik would retrieve it at moonrise, and Rhessar would be back to collect it again come dawn, as if it had never left his possession. “Done,” He murmured to himself, brushing dirt from his gloves. He rose and stretched his shoulders, wings fluttering with a faint shimmer. His dragonfly sprite, Zephriel, pulsed against his thoughts with a gentle chirp; he spoke no words, just that familiar music of approval and urgency that so often nipped at Rhessar’s heels.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” He muttered, glancing toward the west. “I’m cutting it close. But if Thorne insists on fire, then someone has to gather the buckets to put it out.” The thought made him grimace. He didn’t hate Thorne, not at all. He understood fire. He just didn’t trust that Thorne knew when to stop burning.

He stepped off the branch and phase-blinked, reappearing thirty paces below with barely a rustle. He landed light-footed in the underbrush, his spear slung casually over his back. His gaze sharpened as he moved, watching the shadows, listening for the rustle of cloaks or wings or worse.

He’d seen Thorne’s men just past the river bend, clad in horned helms, bark-wrought armor, muttering about signs and militias. They were growing bold, too bold. The whispers were growing into orders, and the Glen was starting to obey.

Rhessar knelt beside a creek, dipping his fingers into the water. A shimmer flared in the ripples: a small ward, a sign that someone had passed this way recently. Such wards were scattered around the Glen for the scouts like him to check, to see what borders had been tested. He stood slowly, lips twitching into a half smile. Someone new, perhaps? Or someone naughty. Either way, he so loved catching wild things roaming where they shouldn’t be. The border was humming, and he wasn’t alone.

“Curious,” He said to the trees, gently pulling his spear from his back. “Someone’s been wandering where they don’t belong.” He adjusted his braid, brushed a smudge from his sleeve, and leaned against a tree with easy grace, blue eyes scanning the shadows. “I do hope you have an interesting reason for being here, little sneak.” He called, his voice light and teasing, pitched just loud enough to carry. He waited, watching the hush between the beranches. One brow arched, playful and expectant. “Come out, then,” He drawled, smirking. “Promise I don’t bite... Hard.”