The Hollow Wing Prince pants drift in shades of solemn grace—one leg veiled in ashen swirls, like smoke rising from a crown long buried, its curls etched in sorrow and faded splendor. The opposite leg stands quiet and steady, Riski Dice etched in crimson oath. These wide-leg pants move not with triumph, but with memory—soft within, stark without. Not every heir seeks a throne—some carry its shadow.
