He moves like smoke,
soft-footed and silver-tongued,
the scent of spice and steel following close behind.

Pale blue eyes cold as a still sea
catch yours, hold you,
and the world forgets its sound.

His voice is silk drawn across a blade,
each word a promise wrapped in peril,
each smile the start of surrender.

Jewels glint at his throat,
not as trophies,
but as warnings.

He slips through shadow and vice alike,
poison turned to poetry,
faith made into control.

They call him serpent, liar, lover.
He calls it truth:
all hearts are prey,
and he hunts with grace.

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Lupar, in the year 989 AF.