The sun had not yet risen, but Lysander Valeris was already awake. His eyes, sharp and gleaming like emeralds, flickered open before the first light of dawn could break through the curtains. The silence of his grand bedroom was oppressive—still, like the rest of the world that hadn't yet acknowledged his greatness.
He stood before the full-length mirror, a piece of art crafted in gold and silver, designed to enhance his beauty. There was no need for the mirror to lie. He was the embodiment of perfection—flawless in every way. His raven-black hair flowed effortlessly down to his shoulders, each strand placed in a perfect wave. His skin, pale and unblemished, glowed softly under the dim light that filtered through the curtains. Even the finest artists in Thaloria could not replicate his features, for he had the face of a god, the kind that made poets weep in reverence.
"Perfection," he muttered, his lips curling into a satisfied smirk as he ran a hand over his chin. The slight scrape of his fingers on his jawline only confirmed what he already knew—there were no imperfections, no flaws. It was a truth as solid as the marble floors beneath his feet.
Lysander had been raised to believe that beauty was power, that his physical form was the most valuable thing about him. His father, Lord Corvin Valeris, had drilled that into him from a young age. "The world does not bow to intelligence or kindness, my son," his father had said time and time again, "it bows to beauty. And beauty, my dear Lysander, is all that matters."
And so it had been. The noble House of Valeris had long been a prominent figure in the Guild of Aesthetics, the highest institution in Thaloria. A person's beauty score determined their worth—an objective system that ranked citizens based on their appearance, granting power and influence to those deemed most physically attractive. Those with perfect scores were granted prestigious roles in society, while the imperfect, the so-called "ugly," were condemned to obscurity.
Lysander had perfected the art of beauty to such a degree that even the Guild had no choice but to place him at the top of their rankings. He was more than just handsome—he was a living, breathing symbol of Thaloria's obsession with appearance. He had everything: wealth, fame, adoration, and a life designed for admiration.
But that morning, as he stood before the mirror, Lysander felt a strange flicker of discomfort, a fleeting doubt he quickly shook off. The mirror, after all, told him everything he needed to know. He was perfect. And perfection deserved the world.