The Myth

"Hello, son." 

Orion Valios stood in front of his cell, looking like he always did (like Uriel's most insulting nightmare) and smiling like he usually did (like a man hiding a blade behind a handshake). 

His scent was familiar—vetiver, smoke, and the faintest trace of iron. It was a smell that haunted him, as much a part of his memories as the searing image of Elara's face on that final day.  

Uriel clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening against the pull of the chains. He looked up, his good eye narrowing as he met the cold, calculating gaze of his father. Orion stood just outside the bars, every inch of him meticulously composed. His three-piece suit was dark as midnight, his silk tie perfectly knotted. His white hair, now fully devoid of the jet-black streaks it once carried, was slicked back, a crown of age and cruel authority. His face was as sharp and predatory as ever, the lines in his skin etched by centuries of malice and mirthless smiles.