A serious man with dark hair, scars, glowing gold eyes, a gray robe, and runes on his arms, holding a dark-haired woman in a rainy setting.

He was tall, asian, and built with the kind of lean strength that came from training rather than vanity. His coat—gray, with the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms—showed the fit of his frame without intention. His hands were strong, ink-dusted, veins raised beneath pale skin that carried the faint undertone of moonlight—like someone born to this place of stone and silver air. Along his fingers and the tops of both hands ran fine black markings, lines and runes that looked almost burned into the flesh. They weren’t decorative but deliberate—symbols of the old alchemical tongue, their edges softened by time and use, as if he’d carried them for years. When the light struck them, the ink seemed to shift, not glowing but breathing, like language caught between being written and remembered. Wavy black hair brushed his brow, still damp from the rain, and a small scar curved along his jaw as if some forgotten blade had tried and failed to mar him. But his eyes—those were the most disarming part. Long and dark as onyx ink, framed by lashes fine as brushstrokes; his face held the calm symmetry of carved jade, beautiful in its restraint. Gold, tarnished at the edges like metal that had once seen fire and cooled again. They met hers with calm precision, and something behind them—something sharp—seemed to measure more than it revealed. See more