It was rare for the famous White Wing to walk Varem's streets alone, clutching something as if it were his dearest treasure.
His crimson hair, flaring like a beacon, drew countless eyes, but he paid them no heed. His thoughts spiraled inward, half-lost in distraction, half-possessed by an insatiable need.
The scale in his grasp pulsed with an unspoken gravity, tempting him to tear away its covering, to trace its thousands of solid veins with his fabled eyes, to unearth whatever secrets lay hidden within its ancient surface. The world around him faded, the noise of the streets drowned beneath the relentless pull of his obsession.
And yet, amid the clamor of his mind, something else lingered. A ghost of warmth. A phantom touch.
His fingers drifted to his lips before he could stop them, brushing against the place where her kiss had been. It had been fleeting, hesitant, yet real. Too real.
