The dream tightened its grip, plunging Syn deeper into the alleys of his past, where shadows loomed long and cruel over a child's fleeting joy.
The sleek convoy rolled to a halt, its central vehicle—a towering, obsidian beast of polished steel—gleaming under the starlight that pierced the Backdrop's eternal night. The door hissed open, and the King emerged, a figure of grand menace cloaked in opulence.
His attire was a spectacle: a flowing robe of deep crimson, its hem embroidered with gold threads that shimmered like captured suns, draped over a tunic of midnight blue, studded with gemstones that caught the lamplight in fiery glints.
A broad collar of silver fur framed his shoulders, accentuating his towering frame—six and a half feet of sinew and authority, his broad chest swelling with every breath, his presence a thunderclap in the cramped alley.
