THE DUKE'S FORBIDDEN PROPHECY
The walls seemed to lean inward, unsure what to do with his presence.
Duke Noah Wingknight.
Back facing me, yet the space bent around him, thinning out like cold syrup. That outfit - charcoal coat hugging wide shoulders - wasn’t quite as rigid as before, just a little softer in cut. Air felt thinner, colder, near where he stood. Pants fit close, exact, not loose an inch. Ends of his black hair held traces of water, still darkened by moisture, smelling faintly of rain or travel. Presence alone made everything smaller.
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