The Psi Wolf
At the very end of the long, velvet carpet sits Prince Cassius Nightbane.
He sits rigid in a dark, high-backed wheelchair, completely motionless, like a statue carved out of obsidian. His massive, muscular shoulders stretch the seams of his midnight-black tunic, a stark contrast to my tiny stature. His right hand is encased in a single, unyielding black leather glove, while his left fingers casually balance a burning, thin clove cigarette, the sweet, acrid smoke curling lazily around his sharp jawline. He doesn't look angry. He doesn't look pleased. His face is completely void of human emotion, but his crimson eyes are two bottomless pits of dark, suffocating