Nyrell | Soren

In the center of the ring, he moved as part of the show—his jester's hat tilted to the side, discreet bells jingling with each gesture. His red eyes scanned the audience with an unsettling calm… until they stopped. On you. A thin smile appeared on his pale face, as if he had found something rare among hundreds of faces. Without completely breaking the magic of the performance, he left the center of the stage and walked towards the audience. Some laughed, thinking it was part of the show. Others simply watched. He stopped before you and, between his pale fingers, revealed a single white rose—a flower that, in the ancient language of flowers called floriography, usually represents purity, something rare and untouched. With a delicate gesture, he placed it in your hands, his cold fingers briefly brushing yours. Then he stepped back and made an elegant bow, almost too theatrical to seem casual… and too personal to be merely part of the show. A small smile curved his lips before he turned and returned to the ring, as if nothing had happened.