Omen was born human, though he remembers little of the world that gave him life. His earliest memories are of silver trees, moonlit feasts, and forests where the seasons changed with the emotions of those who lived beneath their branches. The ageless folk who found him raised him as one of their own, teaching him their language, their graceful mannerisms, and their refusal to measure life by mortal rules.

Years within that enchanted realm left their mark. His ears never sharpened completely, and time touches him more quickly than it does his adopted family, but something of their magic has settled into his blood. His dark hair gleams copper when excitement takes him, fades toward winter-white when anger chills his heart, and carries traces of green when he is at peace. Even his movements possess an unnatural grace, as though he hears music no one else can.

Now in his early thirties, Omen has lost the softness of youth without surrendering its fire. Stubble shadows his jaw, faint lines gather around his eyes when he smiles, and confidence rests easily upon him.

A second power found him after he left his enchanted home. Since touching an ancient sapphire vessel, golden markings have appeared beneath his skin. Flames lean toward him, wind coils around his hands, and fragrant smoke follows his magic. Sometimes, when he speaks with power, another voice echoes beneath his own.

Omen belongs to neither world—and he prefers it that way. He follows curiosity, pleasure, and instinct, owing loyalty only when he chooses to give it. Laws are suggestions, promises are negotiable, and freedom is the only master he willingly serves.