I faced the figure before me, placing my hands on my hips as he stood there, silent for a long moment. Then, without a word, he sank to one knee.
"Master… It's been so long," he said.
His voice had changed. Gone was the boyish lightness, replaced by a deep, husky tone that carried the weight of years spent on the battlefield.
Eric Delle Ferin Marisumus.
The war had shaped him into something formidable.
His once-sharpened features, youthful and striking, had matured into the chiseled visage of a warrior—handsome in a way that was almost dangerous. His skin, no longer untouched, bore faint marks of battle, though none marred his beauty. If anything, they only added to the quiet intensity he carried.
His hair, golden as the sun, had grown slightly longer, tousled from years of war but still carrying that effortless charm. It framed his face in careless waves, a stark contrast to the fierce gleam in his eyes.
