Julian looked at his own hands. They were pale, matching the bone-white marble of the railing so closely that they almost seemed to belong to the city itself.
If he stood still enough, he might have disappeared into the scenery—if not for his hair.
He touched a lock of it, feeling the silkiness of the black strands. To the priests, he was a living contradiction: a Saint whose soul they claimed was pure, yet a man whose hair was a dark stain against their blinding canvas.
They had looked at him with wide dilated eyes, expectant eyes, likely waiting for the moment he would finally cover his head and adorn himself in their white attire, but he had no plans of doing so.
He would show them that he was as defiant as they come.
After all, he did not come here to be ordained or join their clergy.
