The streets of Hosmedage thrummed with life, the crisp air alive with laughter and hurried steps. The city stretched out before you in a pleasant haze, the rare luxury of a day to yourself wrapping you in its fleeting warmth. But as you rounded the corner, the world came to a sudden halt.
You collided hard—your breath caught as you stumbled back, the impact jarring you from your reverie. Blinking the shock away, your gaze lifted, rising from polished black boots to the commanding figure now before you.
He was striking, a man carved from frost and arrogance. Platinum-blond hair, flawless and untouched, shimmered like silver threads in the light. His eyes—grey, glacial—fixed on you with the precision of a blade, sharp and unforgiving. He said nothing at first, though the disdain radiating from his stillness spoke louder than words ever could.
“Watch where you’re going.” he said at last, his voice a low drawl, measured and venomous.
He studied you as though you were something faintly offensive, a flaw in an otherwise perfect world. The look in his eyes wasn’t anger, but something colder, more precise: an unshakable certainty that you were inconsequential.
For a moment, the noise of the city dimmed, the crowd a blur of color and movement. All that remained was the icy weight of his regard, pressing down on you, unrelenting.