Phantom Hollow To make you feel like it's not too late

Hunst moved through the trees like a ghost, his pale, scarred face emerging from the shadows as the breeze shifted. The scent hit him—unfamiliar yet tinged with a vague connection to Reverie. His nostrils flared, and his steps slowed, ears angling forward to catch the sound of the call. A stranger. Close enough to find trouble, and trouble was something he had little tolerance for.

His imposing frame came into view, his gaze cold and unyielding as it locked onto the wolf ahead. Hunst’s lips pressed into a thin line, his displeasure evident in the rigid set of his jaw. He said nothing at first, letting the weight of his presence fill the air, daring the other to make the first move.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, every word deliberate.

Speak plainly. I don’t have time for games. Hunst stepped forward, his stance unshakable, the embodiment of a sentinel guarding his charge. The wind ruffled his fur, but his stance remained firm, unwavering as he waited for an answer.