[ Southern borders of the Avaloria Empire ]
Ash hung in the air, trailing above rows of battered tents sprawled across the barren ground. War-wearied soldiers staggered about with bandaged limbs and grim faces.
Inside Reynard's command tent, the duke looked up as a tall figure entered—a man with dark blue hair and equally dark eyes. His features were sharp, his aura even sharper, but there was something different about him now.
'Azrael,' Reynard thought, immediately recognizing the visitor. For all the times they'd fought and strategized together, Reynard was used to the other's face being marred with old, wicked scars. He blinked, realizing only now that Azrael's skin was completely unblemished.
Reynard's brow furrowed. "How did you fix that ugly face of yours? No offense."
Azrael's lips curled in a faint smile. "None taken, mortal. I'm just as surprised as you. Scars that couldn't heal no matter what—fixed in only a few minutes. Still doesn't feel real."
