Amael soared through the Dragon's Den.
As always, his presence drew attention. Eyes followed him, some curious, some indifferent, but far too many burning with something he could no longer pretend was anything other than hatred.
He had noticed it for months now. That slow, creeping shift in the air whenever he flew through, the way conversations would die mid-sentence and gazes would harden the moment they landed on him. He had chosen to ignore it for a while, to tell himself it was his imagination running ahead of him, but it was becoming impossible to dismiss. The hostility had grown teeth.
