Malen Vadma, Custodian of the Waning Moons.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

That rhythm of metal striking stone was the only insignia he had left. He had almost lost the right to bear the blazon of his Constellation. The yellow veil with emblems of dying moons was merely an ornament, a curtain for his face.

It was not the stride of a knight, but the irregular cadence of a body giving up and a will refusing to do so.

It was the sound of Zenith, his sword too elegant for that function, serving as a cane. It plunged into the ground to drag his left leg, which was now little more than dead weight.

Young eyes followed him.
There was no reverence in those gazes, only assessment. They measured the slowness of his walk, calculating how much real power remained beneath the veil and ceremony.
Malen could feel it on the nape of his neck.

So, he straightened his shoulders.
Raised his head.
He let the low light from the navigation crystals cast an enormous, twisted shadow against the wall. Let them see the silhouette, imposing and dark.
Not the weakness.