The young man who stood before him could not have been more than a year or two his senior. The sides of his head were shaved short, the remainder of his thick, sable twists fashioned into a hairstyle that seemed a cross between a mohawk and an afro. His skin and clothes were immaculate, as if he had never lived a day outside of a colony.
The ethereal orb floating within the confines of his chest puzzled Monty further. He confirmed that the stranger was nineteen years old, that he was a warrior, and the leathery wings that hung from his core marked him a demon. What the royal advisor could not see, however, was the brand of the tribe or coven from which the demon hailed.
Was I wrong? he wondered. Could he be someone else? There’s no way that’s Lizzie’s brother… Right?
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Whistle while you work