The streets of Leonidus still breathed with the aftertaste of dawn—wet cobblestones glimmering like a field of obsidian under the pale light.
The city murmured in its restless rhythm: the blacksmith's first strike, the muffled prayer of a merchant, the low laughter of thieves who had outlasted the night.
Through those alleys walked Aiden, hood drawn low, the faint shimmer of his gaze catching like a knife's reflection beneath it. He had long learned how to walk unseen among those who desired him most.
His face—a curse carved by the gods to undo mortals—was a burden of power. Every glance he allowed was an invitation to ruin, woman after woman trailing his gaze, every smile a confession of dominance.
He kept his head bowed as he moved through the market's edge, his cloak whispering across the stone. A few vendors turned toward him instinctively, sensing that gravitational pull that always followed him, though they could not name why.
