Greatwater Lake No peace for the wicked

The lake was quiet, save for the occasional sigh of wind across its surface. Stark’s lone golden eye fixed on the water, his reflection rippling with each shift of the breeze. He did not turn at the sound of the stranger’s approach, though he was keenly aware of it. A shadow across the periphery. Heavy steps, deliberate yet lacking urgency. The weight of her presence pressed against the edges of his awareness, and yet he did not flinch nor startle.

Let her come.

Stark’s posture remained composed, though the tautness in his shoulders betrayed his readiness. This was not his land, nor his water, but he claimed it in that moment with his stillness, as though daring the intruder to challenge him. Only when the scent of her reached him—earthy, metallic, and faintly soured by some lingering pain—did he deign to speak.

“You’ve watched long enough,” he said, his voice a low rumble, carrying over the gentle lap of water against the shore. He still did not turn to face her.