Nero looked, at first glance, like the palace's idea of trouble made beautiful and given diplomatic immunity.
That same long white-blonde hair fell straight past his shoulders, smooth enough to look unreal in the morning light, parted carelessly as if Nero had never in his life hurried for anyone. His eyes were violet - bright, saturated, and far too calm for someone who had once been banned from three wings as a child for 'inventing games that encouraged structural damage.'
But the part that hit Dean wasn't the hair, or the eyes, or even the smile that always looked like it had teeth behind it.
It was the height.
Dean considered Arion to be tall, over seven feet tall, in the same way that certain storms were 'a bit of rain,' and Dean had already gotten used to the humiliation of looking up at him every day.
Nero, however…
Nero had grown.
Not in the vague, expected way teenagers did. Not 'Oh, he's taller now.' Not 'he filled out.'
