Andras was startled to see a strange figure clad in dark, intimidating robes and armour.
This wasn't a grown man—but a child.
He wore a long, tattered black cloak that swayed gracefully around him like billowing clouds.
The cloak's hood was pulled deep over his head, hiding his face in complete darkness.
He wore sturdy boots, fingerless gloves, and a belt slung low on his hips, holding a sheath.
But the most striking detail was the weapon at his side—a dragon-hilted dagger.
Despite his age, there's an aura about him—something that oozed raw power.
"Who the hell are you?" Andras demanded. "You're not our target."
Archer didn't say anything. Instead he unsheathed his dagger and stood still, waiting.
The courtyard fell into a deathly silence, broken only by the soft jingle of bells on Andras' hat as he tilted his head..
"Not one word? Oh, how rude!" Andras muttered. "You crash my party, steal my target, and now you stand there like some edgy little statue."
