Hajin walked toward the long table lining the side of the ballroom, his movements fluid and natural.
Despite the years of exile and life in the slums, his body still remembered the lessons that had been beaten into him during his childhood.
He navigated through the clusters of gossiping nobles with a level of grace that didn't match his current rank, his posture perfectly straight and his expression one of bored indifference.
He reached the table and picked up a glass of chilled white wine, the crystal catching the light from the chandeliers above. He didn't drink it immediately, instead holding the stem with a familiarity that made several nearby noblewomen pause their conversations.
The calm, nonchalant energy radiating from him was a sharp contrast to the typical arrogance of the young men in the room.
He didn't look like he was trying to impress anyone, which, ironically, made it nearly impossible for people to stop looking at him.
