The air in Hollowood that afternoon felt heavy with sun and whispers. A carriage had just rolled through the gates, and with it, a man who seemed carved from marble and fire. He stepped down slowly, boots striking the cobblestones with a rhythm that made heads turn. His coat was dark, tailored close, hinting at a lithe strength beneath; his hair, black as raven feathers, caught in the light as he tilted his head toward the crowded street. And his eyes—clear, sharp, and daringly self-assured—seemed to seize the very air about him.
He did not need to speak to be noticed. Hollowood's women paused in their errands, giggling behind hands. Even the guards who lingered at the gates gave him a second glance, muttering to one another as though they'd seen a figure step out of one of the tales sung in taverns.
