emperors new clothes

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Sinister’s steps slowed as his gaze settled upon the figure lingering within the valley. An outsider—one who had either wandered too far or had come with intent. The jagged spires of rock loomed like silent sentinels, and the wind carried nothing but the quiet weight of an impending reckoning.

His expression remained devoid of emotion, but the shift in his presence was undeniable. Shadows clung to his form like a living thing, as if the very valley itself acknowledged its master.

“You stand on claimed ground,” his voice carried, smooth but edged with quiet menace. “Few arrive here by mistake. Fewer leave without purpose, or life.”

He did not advance, not yet. Instead, he studied the man, waiting—for an answer, for an excuse, for a reason not to turn the valley itself against him.

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He had just died, god damn it, and already the world was throwing him to the wolves. Literally. Reagan had barely managed to gather his jumbled wits when another figure crept out from the shadows, emerging from the dark veil cast by the towering monoliths of jagged rock that surrounded him.

His eyes narrowed at the stranger's words, and he perked up like a dog catching the scent of an intruder. Adjusting his stance, he shifted from wobbly knees to something a little more sturdy, a foundation of solid muscle ready for a brawl or, if need be, a quick exit. Because let’s be honest, sometimes retreat is the smartest form of warfare.

This guy was a real piece of work, and Reagan was still grappling with what the hell was happening. So, he shot back, “Well god damn, are you threatening me?”

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