The obsidian gates of the Obsidian Estate opened before the car could even slow to turn—an unspoken message that he was expected. The drive was long, lined with ancient, towering trees whose leaves whispered with the weight of forgotten power. And then—at the very end of the driveway—stood a man who didn't belong to this world.
Pyris Obsidian.
The word handsome didn't begin to cover it. It felt ridiculous, almost wrong, to describe him with something so simple. He was carved from elegance itself, with an effortless presence that could humble gods and kings alike. His golden eyes burned with a quiet fire—intelligent, knowing, ancient in ways that defied reason.
Dressed in understated refinement, Pyris wore a long-sleeved black shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, paired with sleek, tailored trousers. No jewelry, no ostentatious flair—just pure, effortless dominance.
