The battlefield had quieted, but Zorawar's heart hadn't.
Blood still stained his knuckles. Pain still echoed in his muscles. His breaths came short, shallow — not from exhaustion, but from something deeper.
And yet, all of that faded the moment he turned to look beside him.
The beast stood silently.
It didn't growl. It didn't bark. It simply existed — calm, composed, and eternal — like it had always been there, waiting for something... or someone.
Its fur was a deep midnight-blue, darker than the sky above, shimmering faintly beneath the soft light of the rising moon. Its golden eyes held no fear, no hostility. Only quiet recognition.
Zorawar could barely breathe.
Something tugged at his chest — not fear, not even awe… but familiarity. Like this creature, this impossible being, had always been part of his story… just waiting for the right page.
A strange current pulsed between them. A thread. A bond.
Not of command. Not of dominance.
But of recognition.
