Trafalgar reached for the ribbon resting on the dresser and gathered his black hair with practiced ease, pulling it back into a low ponytail. The motion was familiar, almost automatic, something he had done countless times before without ever questioning it.
He continued dressing, adjusting the final pieces with quiet care. The colors he chose were dark—deep tones that absorbed light rather than reflected it. They simply fit. The same way a well-balanced sword fit the hand that had trained with it long enough to know its weight without looking.
He had always gravitated toward these colors. Even before titles, before systems, before bloodlines and expectations had names. It wasn't a phase, and it wasn't defiance. It was consistency.
For a long time, he hadn't understood why that mattered.
Now he did.
