Aether's outfit begins shifting, not changing in the slightest, but the padding at the shoulders, the entire thigh area, knees, elbows, and sharp collar shifts—hardening, subtly, deliberately. A silver lining snakes along its edges, faint yet radiant.
Mirakos watches, wide-eyed, amazement etched into his every breath. But Aether's face? Disgust. Pure, unmoving disgust. Disgust aimed at Altan. Ever since meeting the man, Aether had felt it—an aura that needed no words. Strength. You simply knew.
And yet, here Altan was. Hunting a man to death. For fun. A man who had already killed Mirakos' mother. Now he pursued Mirakos' father—for what? For the fragile thought of Mirakos becoming his rival?
