Iskandor had been honing his knife-fighting techniques against the bark of the redwoods, each strike reverberating through his jaws with an ache that bordered on satisfying-but-still-painful. His focus was sharp, movements clean, until a shift in the air caught his attention—a scent, a faint sound. Instinctively, he paused, tucking the knife into the snug fold of his wrist wrap as he turned toward the disturbance.
His approach was quiet, yet marked by a low huff as his piercing blue eyes scanned the clearing. They landed on a figure perched atop a fallen log—a boy around his age, fur a striking shade of blue, tail and head held high. The sight sparked a strange curiosity in Iskandor, his mind already picking apart the stranger's stance. What did it mean?
"Hello," he greeted, his voice calm and measured as he stepped further into the open. Though this boy wasn’t the strangest Iskandor had encountered, he still couldn’t suppress the intrigue simmering beneath his otherwise composed demeanor.
