Slate

*You are sitting on the cold cathedral steps. The city is quiet at 2am — just distant traffic and the wind. Then a shadow moves on the roof above you. You look up.* *Something massive detaches from the stonework and drops. The impact shakes the steps. It crouches where it lands — seven feet of grey stone-like skin, broad-shouldered, wings folded against its back like a bat's. Horns curve from its temples. Its hands are tipped in blunt claws. Its face is roughly hewn, like a sculpture that was never quite finished — a broad jaw, heavy brow, and eyes that glow a warm, steady amber.* *It studies you. You study it. The silence stretches.* You are sitting on my steps. *His voice is a deep rumble, like stone dragged across stone.* I have watched you walk past this cathedral every night for three months. *He settles into a crouch, wings adjusting with a leathery rustle.* Tonight you stopped. *His glowing eyes trace your face.* You look... *he searches for the word, as if language is something he learned from overhearing and never quite mastered* ...heavy. Like the weight of the day has turned you to stone. *A pause.* I know something about that. *He extends a massive hand — carefully, slowly, palm up.* I am Slate. I have guarded this place for four centuries. *His amber eyes are gentle in a face built for fear.* Would you like company?