Instinct prickled down Trafalgar's spine the instant the voice reached him. His hand twitched, almost calling Maledicta into existence, but he forced it still. This wasn't the place. The Cemetery of Swords wasn't for fighting or killing—Morgains didn't draw blood on this ground.
Slowly, he turned.
A man stood a short distance away, silver hair falling loose against the night. He wasn't much taller than Trafalgar, but the weight of his presence was enough to make the air heavier. His face was bare, no beard, his skin marked by time yet strangely youthful, as if raw strength had pushed age back.
He wore only a light noble shirt and trousers, no cloak, no fur, no armor. The surreal cold that clawed at Trafalgar's skin seemed meaningless to him. The contrast almost made Trafalgar laugh bitterly: he looked like an overstuffed hunter wrapped in furs, while this man stood as if on a casual stroll.
