In a dim little room adorned with tall windows and ornate, gilded furnishings, a regal man sat behind an imposing desk of polished blackwood.
Golden eyes, sharp and unreadable, stared forward—calm, calculating, cold. His hair, shimmering like sunlight on steel, flowed back behind his shoulders. Every inch of him radiated wealth, status, and power. The fabric of his garments shimmered faintly in the light, clearly of the highest quality.
He sat in silence, unmoving, his gaze fixed on the projection hovering above his table—a holographic image of a kneeling man encased in radiant gold armor.
Though his expression remained composed, an almost conflicted shadow passed behind his eyes.
This man was Cassian Brightwater—The Golden Death.
A name the demons themselves had given him.
Not a title earned through ceremony, but one forged in the deepest infernos of war. He was feared. Revered. And for good reason.
