Standing in front of the mirror and looking back at me was a young man cloaked in darkness, his presence both regal and foreboding.
'Well. That's certainly dramatic.'
A long cape spilled from his shoulders, its edges frayed as though eaten by shadow itself—or, more likely, by whatever rat-infested storage chest Lira had pulled it from. Beneath it, layers of black and deep gray fabric draped around him in the manner of a traveler's garb that had been reforged for war. His high-collared cloak fastened at the neck with a tarnished clasp shaped like a broken sigil, and over his chest, faint scorch marks traced the outline of old battle scars.
The scars weren't his, of course. Someone else's glory, someone else's pain. Just borrowed aesthetics.
