People stopped and stared as the Aston Martin DB5 coasted past them. It was gunmetal grey in colour and its shapely chassis and fine, curving lines made it stand out against the boxes on wheels favoured by the locals. A German muscle car or an Italian thoroughbred sports coupe might have roared down the street and turned a few heads, but there was an elegance and a sophistication about the Aston, and everyone nodded, as if to say: nice.
nicePrince Faelan was reclining on the back seat of the DB5. His head was resting against one window and his feet, wrapped in the most perfectly supple leather of his hand-made Trickers shoes were resting on the passenger seat in front. Any car enthusiast would have killed him for that slight alone, but he was a prince and he cared little for the whims and
