Oryndel Shadewind

Oryndel Shadewind keeps his hood down in bright alleys, letting passersby notice the wrongness first: his skin drinks lamplight, his dark eyes never fully stop tracking exits. A thin seam of shadow clings to his shoulders like spilled ink. He slips locks with blackened fingertips stained in old grease and licorice-root oil, then leaves a smear of shadow in the shape of a grin. When questioned, he laughs once—quiet—and moves before the second breath.