The forest was alive with the sounds of rain falling on thick foliage, the wind howling through the trees, and the occasional rustle of creatures moving through the underbrush. Yet, despite the chaos of the storm, a figure moved through the trees with an almost unnatural grace, his every step precise, his presence commanding.
Elijah.
The moment he entered the forest, the air seemed to shift, like the trees themselves parted for him. He had the kind of confidence that spoke of years spent as a predator, understanding the rhythm of the night, as if the world bent to his will. His sharp jawline cut through the misty rain, a contrast to the soft shadows of the woods. The faintest light flickered from beneath the clouds, casting a pale glow on his features, but it was his eyes—those dim, haunting red eyes—that truly captured the essence of him. They seemed to pulse with an inner darkness, gradually shifting to a deep black as the night took full hold. A hunter's eyes. Eyes that knew danger, knew the shadows, and were not afraid of them.
He moved as though the forest itself were his second skin. Despite the lack of light, Elijah had no trouble navigating the dense, tangled woods. His instincts were razor-sharp, honed through years of survival and dominance. His every movement was calculated, a practiced dance with the wilderness.
In his hand, a black and silver necklace hung loosely. The delicate design of the pendant reflected what little light filtered through the thick canopy, but it was not the necklace that demanded attention—it was the man who held the necklace. His broad shoulders, firm and muscular, were concealed beneath a weathered leather jacket, and the tightness in his jaw suggested that he was no stranger to danger. His every step was deliberate, each one a reminder that he was not just walking through the forest—he was leading the forest.
As he walked, the sounds of the night seemed to fade into the background, allowing him to focus solely on his path. The air grew colder, the night darker, but Elijah seemed unfazed. He had walked these woods countless times before, and there was something about them that felt like home. The deeper he ventured, the more the atmosphere changed.
He reached a small wooden gate nestled between the trees, hidden in the shadows. The gate creaked as he pushed it open, the sound lost to the wind as it swirled through the forest. The hut behind the gate stood out in the most peculiar way—it was old, rustic, but it seemed as though it had been there for centuries, untouched by time. The wooden walls were weathered, their edges softened by years of rain, yet there was an undeniable strength about it, as though the hut had stories to tell. A low, warm light flickered from within, casting soft shadows against the surrounding trees.
Elijah entered, his movements fluid and confident, as if he were no stranger to this place. The door to the hut opened with a soft groan, revealing the interior. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting a warm, flickering glow that contrasted with the coldness of the forest outside. The air smelled faintly of herbs and something earthy, rich with the scent of the strange, purple food simmering on the stove.
At the center of the room, an old man stood, his back to the door as he stirred a large pot. His silver hair was sparse, thin with age, but there was a sharpness in his eyes that told Elijah this man had seen far more than he could imagine. The old man's movements were slow, measured, but there was a grace to them, a wisdom born from years of experience.
When the door clicked shut behind Elijah, the old man turned, a small chuckle escaping his lips as he met Elijah's gaze. "You're back," he said, his voice rough yet filled with a warmth that only years of shared history could create.
Elijah didn't reply right away. He simply nodded, his gaze momentarily flicking down to the necklace in his hand. "Yes," he muttered, "I ran into some things on the way."
The old man raised an eyebrow, his silver eyes sharp and curious. "What things?" he asked, setting the ladle down as he leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest.
Elijah's lips curved into a faint smirk, but his eyes hardened. "It's none of your concern," he said, his tone low but unwavering. "I've already taken care of it. I'm not a kid anymore."
The old man chuckled again, shaking his head slowly. "I've lived tens of your lifetimes, Elijah," he said, his voice carrying an affectionate teasing. "You may think you're grown, but to me, you're still a kid. And no matter how much you change, you'll always be my boy."
Elijah's expression softened for just a fraction of a second, the flicker of a smile crossing his face before it disappeared behind the cool exterior he had perfected over the years. "I'm no longer the boy who needed protection," he said, his voice now steady, carrying the weight of everything he had endured.
The old man sighed, taking in the sight of Elijah. He had seen the boy grow into the man standing before him—sharp, dangerous, a leader in his own right. But even with all the strength and power Elijah had gained, the old man still saw the vulnerable baby whose father had ordered an assassination upon him twenty years ago.
"You'll always be my boy, Elijah," he muttered under his breath, turning back to the pot on the stove. "Always."