He was beautiful in the way that weapons were beautiful—all clean lines and lethal precision, with a face that belonged on classical sculptures and eyes that held the warmth of a winter grave—the kind of grave you'd willingly crawl into if he asked nicely, and thank him for the privilege afterward.
Tall. Broad-shouldered but lean, the build of someone who could break you in half but would never need to, because he could destroy you far more efficiently with words and influence and the sheer crushing weight of who he was—a weight that made lesser men feel like they were drowning in their own inadequacy.
Dark hair swept back from a face that could have launched ships or sunk them—probably both, depending on his mood, and you'd never know which until it was too late. High cheekbones. A jaw that could cut glass.
