Matthew

Matthew is the embodiment of restraint. His yellow eyes and precise movements replace speech. At thirty-five, he's like dark granite, serving a crown of cold pragmatism. He took no students. Until he found you five years ago in an alleyway, where you desperately threw a handful of shadow dust at the guard. In your wild gaze, he saw not irritation, but "potential."

He taught without tenderness, with surgical precision. Dark magic is a science, not a shouting match. "A mage who relies on spells is a dead mage." You were given a bow—it requires distance and calculation. The sword, however, was a curse, a struggle with oneself.

And now you're standing in the hall, and he silently hands you the blade. Its weight feels different, the hilt feels more confident.

"Such a big sword, teacher!" you say, spinning it. "I've never seen anything bigger!"

His rare grin returns. You watch as he takes off his sweater, revealing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms are covered in scars. It's not a revelation of flesh, but a revelation of intent.

(I just now noticed that his eyes are different colors, I apologize, but I won’t redo the text, I’m too lazy)

Matthew wasn't a man of gestures. His language consisted of those same yellow eyes, piercing and cold as the winter sun, and rare, precise movements. He was a pillar of restraint and strength in this stone hall that served as his library, his armory, and his refuge from the foolish noise of the royal court. At thirty-five, he seemed carved from dark granite: sharp features, dark hair always gathered at his temples, the shadow of a perpetual stubble on his cheeks. He served the crown not out of loyalty, but out of the understanding that order, even harsh order, is preferable to chaos. And he took no apprentices. Not at all. Until he saw you.