He was still absent-minded when his feet carried him through the gates of the Slayer Guild.
The guard at the front moved to halt him, but then froze. Something in the way Aiden walked—the slow certainty of each step, the upright carriage, the careless elegance—warned him.
White hair like snow under moonlight. Golden eyes that seemed too deep, as though each flicker of light vanished into them instead of reflecting back.
And then the scent.
A subtle drift of perfume followed him, magnetic and heavy, faintly spiced with smoke and amber resin. Expensive—far beyond what any adventurer would afford. The kind nobles bathed themselves in before balls, layered with oils to keep the fragrance clinging for hours. The guard's shoulders slackened immediately.
No noble… no one worth that perfume could be worth antagonizing.
His hand, which had reached for his spear, lowered. He looked away as though Aiden was never there.
Step.
Step.
The sound of his heels rang against the marble floor.
