Aya turned around.
Her first thought was Riven. Same height, same jawline, same broad-shouldered frame that blocked out an unreasonable amount of the scenery behind him.
Her guard went up instantly. The last time she had been this close to that face, he had called her a common dog in front of an audience.
But then the differences hit her one after another.
The hair was far longer and cascaded past his shoulders in a wild tumble of loose waves and thick braids, some decorated with small metal clasps that caught the fading light. A few braids hung forward over a broad chest that was—naturally—mostly exposed beneath a crimson and gold robe that hung open as if buttons had personally offended him at some point and he had never forgiven them.
An ornate necklace sat heavy against his collarbones, and the edge of a tattoo crawled up the side of his neck.
