His raven hair, usually slicked back or tied with martial severity, was left slightly loose, falling in soft, devastatingly handsome waves across his pale forehead.
He looked less like the terrifying Reaper of the North and more like a devastatingly romantic, brooding poet who could casually crush a man's skull with one hand.
The effect on the Capital Estate was catastrophic.
Three passing maids had physically walked into marble pillars upon catching sight of him.
Sir Gallahan had spent twenty minutes hyperventilating in the courtyard, questioning whether the lack of mythril compromised the Archduke's structural defense.
Alistair, the Chief Administrative Aide, was currently hovering near the study doors, clutching a clipboard to his chest, looking deeply offended by the display of exposed forearms.
