Azel stepped into Deymoor town with a measured calmness that was a far cry from the nervous wreck he had been the first time he arrived here years ago.
Back then, he had been little more than a frightened boy, shackled by two slavers, powerless and uncertain of where or even what he was.
Now? Things were different.
Several years of brutal training under Steven had sculpted him into something else entirely.
His silver hair shimmered in the morning sun, flowing down to his shoulders in waves, catching the glances of nearly everyone he passed.
Several shopkeepers nodded at him in recognition, their smiles warm and friendly.
A group of girls whispered amongst themselves near the tailor's shop, their faces reddening when Azel glanced their way.
He offered a polite nod before looking forward again, inwardly amused.
He'd grown used to the attention his sharp features and refined build drew — features he once only dreamed of having back in his old world.
