"You guessed it right."
He said easily. Then, tilting his head slightly, he added, "Can you guess where I'm from?"
Draven didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze roam over the young man before him.
Lucavion looked to be in his early twenties—young, but not inexperienced. His body was sleek, lean, built for speed and precision rather than brute force. The way he carried himself, the way he fought… it all pointed to someone who relied on control, not strength.
His face? Not bad. Better than most of the fuckers in this city, at least. But not the best Draven had ever seen. A little too sharp, a little too unreadable.
But the scar—that jagged line running over his right eye—that, Draven liked. It added something to him, something that kept his otherwise smooth features from being forgettable.
But what really gave it away wasn't the name. It wasn't the face.
