Khalaji carried himself like an old and battle-torn wolf, grave and fierce and solemn, the last one left of his pack and yet determined to defend his territory to the death, even when he could barely stand. His crisp, neat slacks, button-down, tie, and suit coat didn’t match the impression he gave off; the wolf in sheep’s clothing, right down to the old trench of a scar starting high on his temple and snaking in a jagged line through one severe brow, skipping over his eye, picking up at the cragged line of his cheekbone to leave an indelible mark on tanned, rugged skin.
