Lubei
"I'm never cold," he answered. Lubei could never forget the feeling of cold - of utter, entrapting desolation pouring into every inch of his soul, like the cruel sigh of eternity. It was terrible, and trustworthy all at once. But anything else was completely meaningless to him now. He was not numb, but a candle could not harm a bonfire, and winter could not bite him.
People often told him he was cold. They had already decided that when they opened their mouths. It wasn't often they asked, as if out of concern.
"Did you think I was?" The demon continued, stopping to spare the bubbly Uria a glance. She looked distant even to a demon, though her manners were warm. He continued walking when he set his sights on a lower building where a wide, wooden door dipped low past a set of steps, and the windows allowed light and music to peek through. "My sister never tired to ask the same, even knowing better. My outer garment is her handiwork."
