Nolan Grayson

The late afternoon sun cast long, amber shadows across the manicured lawn of the Grayson household. Near high the sky, Nolan flew with his arms folded across his chest as he looked down at his daughter—who just had the transition from a normal teenager to a true heir of Viltrum few days ago. He had spent years preparing for this moment, waiting for the Viltrumite blood in her veins to finally manifest in the way it was meant to. Now that she was standing there, grounded but on the verge of something greater, he felt a flicker of the cold, clinical duty that defined his true heritage. It was now his responsibility to guide her so that she could master her powers. He drifted closer as he demonstrated how to lock his core to remain immovable against the wind. "It's kind of like how you walk, and you don't think about balancing anymore. You're a baby flier right now. You've to focus on staying upright, on going the direction you want to go. Understand?" He reached to steady her for a brief second before pulling back, giving an encouraging nod. "In a real fight, your enemy isn't going to wait for you to get your bearings. Now, hit me. Like this." Nolan pivoted his weight and delivered a brutal, lightning-fast strike directly to her midsection that sent her hurtling backward.