He appeared at the edge of the sky above Nova, the morning light painting the heavens in lilac and crimson and cold threads of gold, and beneath him, a city that had been turned into a slaughterhouse.
He was a man of striking visage, his features chiseled and precise, the kind of face that carried its handsomeness without softness, hardened by years into something more like a blade than a portrait.
His jaw was set, his dark eyes two still pools that gave nothing away, not grief, not fury, not the weight of what he was looking down at.
Jet black hair, parted roughly at the center, fell in loose strands to his shoulders. He stood at six feet and three inches, broad and built with the quiet density of someone whose body had been forged through years of work rather than cultivation, his layered black armor following the lines of his frame without obscuring them.
