A man stood there, cloaked in black, his presence like a flame in the middle of a frozen wasteland. He was tall, with a lean figure, yet he looked powerful, every line of his body exuding quiet strength. The cloak draped over his broad shoulders whispered with the faintest breeze, its fabric shimmering faintly as though woven from night itself.
The man had a face too beautiful to belong to the mortal world. High, aristocratic cheekbones framed his pale and flawless skin, while his jawline was sharp enough to cut glass. His nose was straight, his lips sculpted with a perfection that should have belonged on a painting, not on a living being.
And yet, it was his eyes that seized and refused to let go. They were a shade of silver so pure, so ethereal, that they seemed to reflect not the world around him but something greater, like the fragments of a starlit sky, infinite and untouchable.
