The crisp evening air carried the scent of the wilds beyond Duirt’s walls, a mixture of damp earth and distant sea breeze. Here, outside the city gates, the hum of civilization had faded into a quiet hush, replaced by the whispering of wind across the open plains. It was a rare solitude, unbroken save for the occasional flicker of torchlight along the walls behind him.

Luthan Ashendale stood beside his saddle, adjusting the final straps of his gear with the deliberate precision of a man long accustomed to battle. The breastplate upon his frame bore only the simplest of engravings, its polished steel reflecting the last remnants of daylight. His shield, strapped securely to his back, carried the mark of Saint Theris—a silent vow, ever present upon his shoulders. He had returned his heavier armor to the Cathedral, leaving behind the borrowed armaments for the path ahead.

The Longbow resting at his side, the lance secured to the saddle, the weight of steel and leather against his skin—all familiar, all necessary. And yet, as he checked the bindings once more, tightening the leather against his forearm, his gaze lifted—not to the road, but to the sky.

For a moment, the hush of the evening stretched on, broken only by the distant rustling of wind through the grass. Then, a shadow moved against the deepening hues of twilight. A streak of gold and white, cutting through the indigo vastness of the heavens.

Raziel.

The celestial eagle rode the winds as if he were part of them, his vast wings outstretched like banners unfurled in the sky. The golden edges of his feathers glimmered faintly in the fading sunlight, catching the last dying rays and scattering them in a halo of divine radiance. There was no mistaking him for a common beast—he was something more, something greater, a creature of faith and fury, bound not to the earth but to the will of the divine.

With a final, powerful stroke of his wings, Raziel descended, his golden eyes locked onto Luthan’s, sharp, knowing, eternal.

Luthan did not raise a hand nor call out. There was no need.

The great eagle angled his wings and adjusted his descent, slowing only at the last moment before his talons found purchase upon the earth, stirring dust into the air in a billowing cloud. His wings spread wide for an instant, magnificent and terrible all at once, before folding neatly against his body.

For a heartbeat, they simply regarded each other.

Then Luthan stepped forward, reaching up to press his forehead to the great eagle’s beak in a quiet, reverent gesture of greeting. "You kept me waiting, old friend," Luthan murmured, his voice quiet, carrying a warmth rarely heard beyond private moments such as this.

Raziel exhaled through his nostrils, a slow, measured breath, his beak nudging against Luthan’s shoulder with something close to fondness. The rider chuckled, resting his gloved hand against the eagle’s golden-tinged feathers. "You still smell like the sky." Raziel let out a low, rumbling cry—not the piercing call of battle, nor the warning of a hunter, but something softer. Something meant only for him.

Luthan's hand tightened slightly in the eagle’s plumage. The road ahead was long, the trials uncertain, but in this moment—this singular, fleeting moment—he was not alone. "Come," he said at last, stepping back, his voice touched with quiet resolve. "We have much to do."

Raziel only inclined his head...