Not the dark clothes.
Not the way he tried to keep to himself.
The lines of muscle beneath his tunic were impossible to miss, shifting with every step, controlled, deliberate, as though every movement was calculated.
Danger wrapped in restraint.
And I—I noticed.
Gods help me, I noticed.
It wasn’t polite to stare.
Or ask.
Or assume.
Especially here, where the wrong question could get you hurt.
So I didn’t.
I just watched him go, something warmer than curiosity flickering low in my chest—something I refused to name—buried quickly beneath the familiar weight of my own shortcomings.
Because whatever he was—whatever existed in that space between power and control—it had nothing to do with me.
And I had no business wanting it to.
“Focus, Amrin,” I whispered to myself.
Because that was the real issue, wasn’t it?
Not the Monsters.
Not the magic.
Me.
Always me.
The clumsy one.
The shy one.
The fat one.
Always too soft.
Too slow.
Too late.
A Cordoza by blood, and yet somehow, the least impressive of us all.
My sisters had been brilliant.
Elegant.
Powerful.
