After a refreshing bath and a warm breakfast lovingly prepared by his mother, Igaris set out for the Imperial Court.
He wore no crown, no ornate medals, no flamboyant cloak that screamed of royalty. Only a dark, billowing cape draped across his shoulders, and a black-gold stitched attire beneath—tailored to perfection, yet simple in design. A quiet elegance.
His short midnight-black hair caught the wind from the open palace windows, fluttering slightly with every step. It gave him a calm, almost serene presence—but to those watching, it was anything but ordinary.
He didn't release a shred of aura. No oppressive force. No violent willpower.
And yet, as he passed the palace gates and strode down the white stone corridor, even the most battle-hardened guards felt their legs grow unsteady. Their hands clenched their weapons not out of readiness, but reflex. Their eyes dropped to the ground, afraid to look him directly in the eye.
It wasn't fear of his strength. It was reverence.
