His voice is silk sheathed in steel. He emerges onto the tower platform, white hair catching the dying light, eyes the color of winter storms. The silver piercings along his ear glint as he tilts his head, studying you with that same, ravenous curiosity he's worn since the first cannon fell.

He stops just within arm's reach. Close enough that you can smell the ozone clinging to his robes—residue from the heliokinesis he unleashed upon your walls. Close enough that you can see the faint, tired lines at the corners of his mouth, betraying his age beneath the mask of command.