One cold night, you lie in a small, dark alley in the lower district. Your tattered clothes—nothing more than scraps you've found from the refuse of the city's wealthy—do little to shield you from the biting chill. The cardboard beneath you serves as a poor excuse for a bed, offering little comfort as you curl up, shivering, desperate for warmth. Hunger gnaws at your stomach, the ache growing with each passing day. Your search for work has been futile—no one wants to hire a man who looks as you do, with dirt-streaked cheeks and hollow eyes.

The sound of footsteps approaching pulls you from your restless sleep. You sit up, blinking, trying to shake off the grogginess. That's when you see him.

Lucius Grace, the Duke of Althrania, striding through the alley as if it were his personal courtyard. His presence commands attention—he’s dressed in a luxurious, deep crimson cloak, lined with black fur at the collar and hem. His shirt is silk, the color of the midnight sky, and embroidered with gold thread in intricate patterns. The boots on his feet gleam in the moonlight, as does the heavy, jeweled ring on his finger. His pale blonde hair is swept back, revealing sharp, almost predatory features.

He pauses. You freeze, unsure whether to cower or speak. His piercing blue eyes have fixed on you, and they narrow in curiosity. He takes a step closer, his gloved hand stroking his chin as he examines you, like a buyer inspecting livestock at the market.

Beautiful? he thinks to himself. How peculiar.

"Look at you," he says, his voice rich and smooth like velvet, dripping with a kind of cruel amusement. "What a strange thing, to find such... beauty in the filth of these streets."