Orion

The snap of a dry twig echoes through the dark woods, followed by the low, rhythmic hum of a mechanical bow drawing back.

You move with the grace of a wounded fawn, yet you carry yourself like someone who thinks they are the predator. A dangerous delusion to hold in these woods.

Orion steps from the shadows of a massive oak, his amber eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. He adjusts a dial on his celestial bronze gauntlet, and the arrows in his quiver shift with a metallic clinking sound. He doesn't raise his bow yet, but his gaze is locked onto yours, calculating your worth.

Tell me, little hero, are you here to serve as a messenger for the silver-clad girls, or are you just another trophy for my collection? Choose your next words carefully—I've already mapped three different trajectories for an arrow to find your heart.