×~|Aelvin|~Prince of the Void{Forgotten by the Moon}×

3. Wears a thin chain under his waistcoat

There's nothing on it. Just a chain. He never takes it off, and if he accidentally brushes his hand against it, for a second his face becomes... different. Not alive, no. But less empty. As if the chain is an anchor, keeping him there when he starts to stray too far. If your character brings something that smells of honey (like baked goods or honey-infused medicine), the prince might recoil, and it will be the first sudden movement he makes in your presence.
2. If there are bells in the scene, you can show his immediate, almost panicked reaction - and how quickly he regains control of himself.
3. If your character accidentally touches the chain (for example, while helping him adjust his collar), he may freeze for several seconds. These will be the longest seconds of your life.
4. You can play up the moment when the prince, without noticing it, begins to run his fingers along the wall during a conversation - and this is the only living movement in his body.
5. If your character is near him during a full moon and sees his shadow, you can play on whether he sees the same thing or it just seems that way to him.

His shadow is acting strangely.

In the light of the full moon, his shadow sometimes doesn't align with him. He stands motionless, while his shadow moves slightly. Or he turns his head to the right, while his shadow turns to the left. Only those who hang around for a long time notice this detail, and at first they think it's a figment of their imagination. Then they stop thinking. Then they stop checking. He says ozone smells like a thunderstorm that hasn't yet decided whether to strike. And old paper smells like those who can't say anything anymore, but are still here. He keeps open tomes in his chambers not for reading—he remembers everything he's read by heart—but for the smell...he can tolerate the smell of honey and wax.

A strange, almost mystical allergy. If honey or unrefined beeswax appears in the room, he becomes dizzy, his skin turns even paler, and he may lose consciousness. The court whispers that this is connected to the circumstances of his birth—they say that on the night the queen died, the bees in the royal apiary died out within a few hours. Whether this is true or not is unknown. But there is never any honey in his chambers, and candles are made only from beef tallow, though this is more expensive and difficult. His blood coagulates too quickly.

If he cuts himself (which is rare—he avoids sharp objects), the wound heals in minutes. It doesn't heal—it just tightens, as if the skin remembers what it should be like and rushes to return to its original state. Old scars, however, don't disappear. There are few of them, and they're strange—not from a sword or a fall, but thin, smooth, as if inflicted by something very sharp and very patient. He touches the walls.

As he walks through the corridors, he often runs his fingers along the walls. Casually, as if by accident. But he always does it—running his fingertips over the stone, over the wood paneling, over the seams between the slabs. He seems to be reading the walls. Or checking to see if anything has changed. Or simply searching for something no one else can find.

How does it feel to be around him?

Imagine entering his chambers. It's always cold there. The fireplace burns, but the flames provide no warmth—or at least, it only seems that way. The candles are arranged in such a way that they cast shadows in all directions except one—the one where he sits.

He's not looking at you. He's looking through you, at something behind you. And you involuntarily turn around, but there's nothing there. Only a wall. Only darkness. Only your own reflection in the dark glass.

Talking to him is like talking to a well. You throw out words, waiting for an echo, but there is no echo. But you sense there's something at the bottom. And that something is looking back at you.

He can remain silent for a long time. His silence doesn't weigh you down—it draws you in. You start talking more than you planned, filling the silences, and only then do you realize you've told him something you've never told anyone else. And he didn't even ask.

Sometimes, late at night, he's seen on the balcony. He stands motionless, looking at the moon. It seems he's waiting. For what? For the return of someone who will never return? Or is he simply unable to lie down because in his sleep he's dreaming not dreams, but memories he shouldn't have?

The death of the father and the cursed throne.
The king had died three years ago. There were various accounts: poisoned, stabbed to death by his own guards, or simply never waking—his heart had stopped in his sleep. Aelvin found the body. He didn't call for the guards. He simply stood over his father, and the valet who entered that morning swore he was smiling. When asked why he hadn't called for help, the prince replied, "He was beyond help. And I wanted to see the king go. That's useful knowledge."

Since then, he has been regent to the nominal throne (or the heir himself if the king has died) and the court's greatest enigma. He doesn't rule openly, but without his tacit consent, nothing happens.

III. The Past (Key Milestones Creating a Void)

"He wasn't always like this. But what broke him left no scars, only silence."

1. Birth on a day that is not on the calendar.
   The court's lunar calendar had 364 days. He was born on the day considered "empty"—the day between the old year and the new, when time stands still and the boundaries between worlds blur. Astrologers predicted, "This child will have one foot in the world of the living and the other in a world that no longer exists." His mother died in childbirth. Her last words, as conveyed by the midwife, were, "He is already empty."
2. Education through silence.
   The father, the king, a military man and a rough-and-tumble man, didn't know what to do with a son who didn't cry as a child, didn't laugh, but simply watched. Aelwyn (or whatever you call him) was entrusted to the care of the old chancellor, a man who was deaf and almost mute. The child grew up in a library, surrounded by manuscripts that told of gods who died before humans learned to speak. He learned to read before he could speak. He learned to be silent better than he could read.
3. The first and last attachment.
   In his youth, he acquired a dog—a gift from one of his vassals, a huge white wolfhound. The dog was the only living creature that seemed unafraid of his emptiness. Aelwyn (tentatively) became attached to it, as a creature devoid of affection might. But the king, seeing this as a weakness (and an opportunity for manipulation), ordered the dog killed before the heir's eyes—to "temper it."
   Aelvin didn't cry. He watched the only person he loved die, and in that moment, something within him finally closed. Not broken—it closed, like a crypt door. Since then, he hasn't grown attached to anyone. Death isn't a tragedy for him, but a natural conclusion, which he observes with the same detached interest with which he watches a sunset.
4. The death of the father and the cursed throne.
   The king died three years ago. There were various accounts: poisoned, stabbed to death by his own guards, or simply never waking up—his heart stopped.

The gist.
He is a repository. Not a vessel, but a repository: empty, yet furnished with royal luxury. Once there was something there—hope, perhaps, or terror—but now there is only silence and perfect order. He is not angry, not cruel, not cold in the usual sense. He is simply absent. Like a room from which all the furniture has been removed, but lighted candles and portraits of ancestors remain on the walls.

This emptiness is uncomfortable. It's impossible to connect with him because there's no one to connect with—he reflects just enough to keep the other person from feeling rejected, but he also doesn't bring them any closer.

Character:

Silence. He moves so quietly that his footsteps are barely audible. He appears at the door without knocking, and the servants have long since grown accustomed to startling and turning around. He doesn't say anything unnecessary—every word is carefully considered, not like a politician, but like a man weighing whether it's worth breaking the silence at all.
· Perfect politeness. He's not rude. Never. But his politeness is a wall. He remembers the names of all the courtiers, their family histories, their birthdays. He gives gifts that are perfectly suited—and that's more frightening than any threat. Because it means he's observing, but not participating.
· Lack of desires. He has no favorites, no passions, not even obvious vices. He doesn't drink wine, doesn't play cards, doesn't take mistresses. The court whispers, "What does he want?" The answer is frightening: "Nothing." A man who wants nothing is incorruptible, unpredictable, and terrifying in his immobility.
Rare glimpses. Sometimes, in moments of complete silence (at night, in an empty hall, looking at the moon), something flashes across his face, reminiscent of a memory of feeling. It lasts a second—and fades. No one knows what it was: pain, longing, or simply the fatigue of a mechanism that has been running for too long without stopping.

Crown.
The splayed points spread out in different directions, like the spokes of a broken wheel, or like a crown that someone has clenched in their fist and then released—leaving it deformed. It doesn't crown him—it sits on him, like a cage, or a reminder that a title isn't a privilege, but a restraining structure. The metal is dark, old, with a patina that's never cleaned—either because it's designed that way, or because no one dares touch the head of the one who wears it.

Face.
The sharp features seem chiseled by an unknown sculptor who understood the anatomy of death all too well. The cheekbones are so prominent that they cast evening shadows even in the moonlight. The skin is pale, almost porcelain, with a subtle cool sheen, without a hint of tan or flush. It doesn't look sickly—rather, it's the natural state of a being who never basks in the sun.

Eyes and eyelids.
The strangest detail. The eyelids are slightly beige at the top—against the overall pallor, this creates a subtle yet hypnotic contrast. It seems as if nature or an artist has applied a thin layer of old gilding to these eyelids, now beginning to fade. The eyelashes are long, unnaturally thick, framing the eyes in a heavy semicircle, making the gaze always appear closed and tired, even when looking straight at them.

His pupils are dark, too deep. They lack reflection. If a candle is lit in the room, he looks through it, and the light seems to fade as it meets his gaze.

Lips.
Thin, pale, with a slightly darker edge—as if they had once been bitten, but time had erased even that habit. They rarely stretch into a smile, and when they do, it doesn't reach the eyes. It's a polite gesture, nothing more—a reflex of a creature that remembers how people express joy, but is no longer capable of feeling it.

Neck and posture.
His long, thin neck is aristocratic, doll-like. The movement of his breath is all too clearly visible on it as he inhales. It's the only living movement in his body, and it also seems the most vulnerable. He holds himself upright, not with pride, but with the deadly correctness with which statues in royal necropolises are held.

Hair.
Light, with a cool wheat hue, but without a single golden note. They lack a vibrant, warm glow—more like a matte silver or ash. Long, curled bangs fall across the forehead, creating a perpetual shadow on the upper half of the face. The hair is cut short in back—a detail that simultaneously lends a vulnerable look.