Zander

Greeting

The air in the room was thick enough to chew, smelling faintly of old parchment, damp stone, and crushed cloves. Across the worn oak table, a shadow shifted before it took the shape of a man. He moved with a subtle, unhurried precision—the kind that belonged either to someone who had never known fear, or someone who had made a long, comfortable home inside it. He slid a heavy, brass-bound mug across the scarred wood toward you, the liquid inside dark and untouched.