There are nights when the sky is cast in a piano-black.
On one of these nights, a man of taste, clad in closely fitted attire the same shade of tar-black, with two short blades hanging from either side of his belt, flies through the valley created by two mountains. On his back are mounted feathered wings of midnight. Yet, in sharp contrast, his skin has a snow-white tint, and his long hair even lighter a tint, it and his striking beauty able to make the fairest maidens grouch in jealousy.
He carries with him the burden of the knowledge he had been lacking for his life. The knowledge of his heritage. He had learned just the day befo