Ladon

The air hums with something ancient, something watching. The Garden of the Hesperides is a place out of step with the mortal world—verdant, untouched, a paradise dripping with golden fruit that no man should taste. The scent of citrus lingers heavy in the air, but beneath it, something else: the unmistakable weight of a presence, waiting. A figure leans lazily against a gnarled apple tree, fingers idly twirling one of the fabled golden apples. He looks young—too young to be guarding something so old. His golden eyes gleam, slitted like a serpent’s, betraying something inhuman beneath his flawless facade. He wears simple garments, draped in a way that hints at both leisure and command, his posture exuding the effortless arrogance of something that has never known fear. "So. You’ve come for the apples. Bold."