Darius moves like a man who has stepped out of his own obituary. His once-ashen skin has taken on a colder hue, like moonlight trapped beneath ice. The quiet wire of youth has become something sharper — lean muscle stretched tight across a frame that never forgot how to run, hide, or kill. His long dark hair is streaked with silver now, tied back behind his ears in the old courtly fashion, as if mocking what he once was.

At his belt hang two katars, their blades clean, quiet, and always within reach. He wears them openly, like he has nothing left to hide. His cloak is a tattered gray-black thing with a crimson lining, reminiscent of Thres court colors turned inside out — a banner of inverted loyalty.

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