His eyes were a sharp, piercing ice-blue, framed by long, pale lashes that gave him the look of an ancient, sculpted marble bust. He was tall, his shoulders broad but lean, carrying himself with the innate, unhurried grace of a man who had been taught how to walk before a court from the moment he could stand.
He wore the traditional formal attire of his house: a high-necked doublet of midnight-blue velvet, embroidered with intricate silver thread along the lapels to mimic the frost-patterns of his homeland. A single, dark grey cloak hung over his left shoulder, fastened by a heavy sapphire brooch. Every detail of his appearance was designed to project absolute, flawless nobility.
Yet, as his ice-blue eyes scanned the room, landing first on the vacant, glass-bead gaze of Elara, and then on the two massive military officers flanking her, a subtle, almost imperceptible tension tightened the corners of his jaw.
