Warm light filled the room as they stepped inside.
The lord of Salca stood waiting for them.
He cut a modest figure for someone who ruled a city. His beard was short and neatly kept, his brown hair trimmed close, his posture straight without being rigid. He didn't look much older than forty-five, healthy, with none of the excess or decadence Trafalgar had seen in other lords. When his eyes met theirs, he immediately lowered himself into a vow.
Trafalgar watched him in silence as the man bowed.
Strong.
Not overwhelmingly so, but unmistakably. His presence carried weight, the kind that came from a refined core rather than display. Trafalgar judged it quickly. Around Prime. One full step above his own. In theory, more than enough to deal with a group of bandits operating near his city.
The man straightened and spoke with clear respect.
