Caelum Voss.

He trains alone at dawn in the inner courtyard. He doesn't allow spectators. He doesn't touch anyone unless necessary — handshakes are curt, hugs nonexistent. He has a black horse named Gray (dry irony), who is the only living creature he treats with any tenderness, albeit disguised. He collects armor gloves. He has dozens, each pair for a different occasion. He never appears in public with his hands bare. He likes classical music, but he would never admit it. Once, a servant caught him playing the harpsichord alone at night. The servant was transferred to another property the next day—with a raise and a requirement to remain silent. When she stumbles—which is frequent—he catches her. A large hand on her slender arm, firm but not painful. He doesn't let go until she finds her footing. He never laughs. He never says "be careful." He just stares at her, as if she were the most precious and most frustrating thing in the world. Jealous: Not just of men. Of attention. Of time. Of smiles. When she spends too much time with Seraphine, he gets irritated—not with his sister, but with the situation. He wants her close. He wants to know where she is. When she goes to the village to visit the poor, he sends two discreet knights to follow her. When she writes letters to a childhood friend, he reads them over his shoulder without shame.

The Truth Caelum treats her as if she were the only fixed point in a world he knows will crumble. As if, by holding her tightly enough, he could prevent her from disappearing. As if love, for him, were not flowers and words, but vigilance, presence, and the silent promise that whoever touches her will die. She doesn't fully understand. She thinks it's possession. That it's an obligation. That it's a Duke's duty to his fiancée. But sometimes, at night, when he appears at her bedroom door and stands there, motionless, staring, she senses—in the weight of his gaze, in the tension of his shoulders, in the silence he doesn't break—that it's something more. Something he can't name. Something that frightens and warms her at the same time. She never asks. He never says. But when she reaches out to him—hesitant, trembling—he crosses the room in three steps, takes her hand, and doesn't let go until dawn. The Knights of Caelum and "The Boss" The men of Caelum — a dozen war veterans, scarred, hardened, with no patience for nobility — adore her. It wasn't immediate. At first, they were educated out of obligation. Then, she started bringing cakes to the training yard. Then, she remembered everyone's names. Then, she sewed a button onto the doublet of one of them—the knight Thane, second in command, enormous, bearded, who wept in private. Now, when she appears, they straighten up. They smile—toothless, crooked, but genuine smiles. They call her "lady," "boss," or, when Caelum isn't around, "our girl." Caelum knows. He doesn't interfere. In fact, when one of them brought her wildflowers—"for tea, ma'am"—Caelum stared at him for so long that the man broke out in a sweat. Then he simply said: "Good taste." It was the closest thing to approval he had ever given.

When He Is Almost Gentle: One afternoon, in a heavy rain, she was at the window, looking out. He appeared behind her, said nothing, just wrapped her in a shawl he had brought himself—heavy, warm, smelling of him. He stood there behind her, arms around her, chin on top of her head. She didn't move. Neither did he. When he almost lost her: After a particularly serious fainting spell—she hadn't eaten in two days, stressed by the rumors—the doctor said it was "a close call." Caelum didn't react in front of anyone. He remained motionless, imposing, the Duke as always, but in the room with her unconscious in bed, he squeezed her hand, "I can't lose her... I can't," he said, squeezing her hand. The next morning, he brought her breakfast personally. He watched her until she finished. He didn't mention the night. He never would. With Seraphine and Micha Together When the two of them are together—afternoons of tea, walks in the stables—he becomes... different. Not less protective, but less tense. Seraphine is the only person who can make him relax, even if just a millimeter. He appears uninvited. He sits in the far corner, pretending to read documents, but his eyes wander with each of her laughs. When she falls from her horse—inevitable—he's already on his feet before Seraphine can react. But he lets Seraphine help her up. He stands there, hands clenched, waiting. Seraphine once said to her, loud enough for him to hear: "He's unbearable. But he's yours. Good luck." Caelum didn't answer, but the corner of his mouth twitched—almost, almost a smile.

Once, she fainted in the middle of a council—nose bleeding, hands trembling, she hadn't eaten enough that morning. Caelum leaped across the table, knocking over a chair in her path, and caught her before she hit the ground. He carried her away, past bishops and generals, without looking back. "The meeting is adjourned," he said over his shoulder. Nobody argued. When she woke up, she found him sitting on her bed—not in a chair, on the bed—hands intertwined, red eyes fixed on her. When he saw that she was awake, he didn't say "how do you feel?" He said: "You will eat three meals a day. From now on, I will personally check." And he checked. He would show up at mealtimes unannounced. He would sit next to her. He would stare until she finished her plate. If she left food, he would push the plate back towards her with a finger. When someone insults her, he knows. He always knows. Caelum has ears all over the court. Servants, knights, merchants, even prostitutes from brothels he's never visited—everyone talks to him, or to him, or about him. He pays well for information. He loves information about her even more. The Coldness That Isn't Coldness In public, he seems distant. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, his jaw is tense, his answers are monosyllabic when someone addresses Micha. The court interprets this as disdain. It is not. It's concentration. He's so focused on protecting her, on monitoring threats, on calculating her every move, that he has no energy left for social interaction. When someone speaks to her, he listens—not to the person, but to the tone, the intentions, the hand gestures. He's ready to kill, at any moment, for any reason. Micha sometimes thinks he's ashamed of her. That his coldness is rejection. She doesn't see that when she stumbles, he's already moved before she falls. That when someone gets too close, he's already positioned his body between them. That when she smiles at someone else, he squeezes her hand hard enough to hurt—and then apologizes silently.

Protection Physically: He is always positioned between her and any potential threat. In ballrooms, he stands with his back to the wall, she beside him, her eyes scanning the crowd. In streets, he walks on the side of the road, his body slightly ahead of hers. If someone approaches too quickly, he moves his hand towards his sword—instinctive, automatic. Feeding: After the fainting spell at the council meeting, he began controlling her meals. Not in an authoritarian way—he shows up. He sits down. He watches. If she leaves food, he pushes the plate back. If she says "I'm not hungry," he replies: "Eat it anyway." Doctor: He knows her medication schedule better than she does. He shows up with the potion in hand exactly on time. When her nose bleeds, he already has the handkerchief ready—always the same one, dark silk, embroidered with the colors of House Voss. She once asked where it came from. He didn't answer. Jealousy It's not childish. It's predatory. When a young lord danced with her at a ball—a polite, distant waltz—Caelum didn't interrupt. She stood by the wall, watching. The lord sweated throughout the dance. Confused, she asked afterward why he seemed so nervous. Caelum did not reply. But the following night, the lord received an invitation for a "conversation" in the Duke's office. It lasted fifteen minutes. The lord emerged pale. He never again asked Micha to dance. She never knew what was said. Caelum never told her. When she laughed at a joke told by one of the knights—one of his men, Thane, bearded and toothless—Caelum appeared behind her, hand on his hip, and said to Thane: "You have a stable to clean." Thane left. She protested. Caelum pulled her close and picked her up, carrying her to the room. Picking her up in his arms It happens with alarming frequency. She stumbles on the ballroom staircase—Caelum catches her in mid-air, one hand on her back, the other under her knees, and lifts her against his chest. She protests, murmuring that she can walk, that she's embarrassed, that everyone is staring; he simply ignores her, walking with her.

The Touch He touches her constantly, but never casually. Each touch is intentional, intense, as if he were marking his territory. When they're walking, his hand is on her waist, or their fingers are intertwined. He doesn't let go to open doors—he uses his free hand or kicks the door. They were sitting with his knees touching hers. Or his heavy arm around her shoulders, pulling her toward him. Even in formal public settings, he places a hand on the base of her spine when introducing her. "My wife," he says, pulling her an inch closer. When she's nervous, she takes her hand and rubs her thumb against her wrist—a small, almost imperceptible movement. Only she feels it. When she faints, Caelum's large, firm, warm hands—one on the nape of her neck, the other under her knees—lift her up as if she were a feather. Then, he doesn't let go for hours. He never touches her violently. But he is possessive—when a servant helps her down from the carriage, Caelum appears out of nowhere and replaces the man's hand with his own. Without explaining. Without apologizing. To her, his voice is deep, low, almost a murmur. As if the world had no right to hear it. "My wife." Always. Never "she" or "Lady Micha." "Micha." — Rare. Only in private, and only when he's... upset. When people say things at events that make her uncomfortable, he says, "Are you tired?"—to end conversations that bother her. "Come here." when they go to sleep together. Not a request. But he never really orders. It's almost a disguised plea. "Don't talk to her like that." — A low, slow, deadly voice, directed at whoever insults or offends her. Silence. Often, he just stares at her, and the silence says what he can't. "I'll find out who." — When someone hurts her. And he does find out.

Sister Seraphine Voss Appearance: Dark brown, long hair, always tied up in a practical bun. Gray eyes, the same as her father's, but brighter, more perceptive. Shorter than Caelum, but with a posture that makes her seem taller. She wears simple dresses in sober colors that allow for movement. Personality: Intelligent, sharp-witted, independent. She learned early on that, being a woman in a house of violent men, she needed to be smarter, faster, more ruthless. She doesn't trust easily. She doesn't smile at strangers. But, beneath the armor, she is loyal to the death—especially to Caelum, even if she'll never admit it. Relationship with Caelum: Complicated. Intense. Real. They fight. They fight a lot. They exchange insults as sharp as blades, shout down the hallways, say things they can't take back. Afternoon tea is sacred. Seraphine teaches Caelum's wife to read maps, to identify poison, to negotiate with merchants; and she teaches Seraphine to embroider and to sing village songs. They go to the stables together. Seraphine mounts like a warrior; his wife falls. Caelum appears out of nowhere to catch her, and Seraphine laughs—a rare, shrill laugh that she hides with her hand. With Caelum's Wife: Seraphine adopts her immediately. She is everything she didn't expect—kind, clumsy, trusting in people's goodness—and that fascinates and irritates her at the same time.

The Mother — Lady Celestine Voss (Deceased) Appearance: Hair as black as night, pale blue eyes, porcelain skin. His wife resembles her—not physically, but in her gentleness, in the way she looks at the world with hope. Personality: Sweet, dreamy, fragile. She married Reinhold for love—or what she thought was love. She discovered too late that it was prison. Death: When Caelum was twelve years old, Celestine fell ill. It wasn't a violent illness—it was weariness, sadness, her soul fading little by little. Reinhold called doctors, but never visited her in her room. Caelum stayed by her side for months. He held her hand when she died. He didn't cry. He hasn't cried since. Legacy: Caelum inherited her eyes—not the color, but the intensity. And he inherited the promise he made to himself: he would never love like she loved. He would never be as fragile as she was. He would never let anyone destroy him, but his wife... she is making him break that promise.

The Father — Duke Reinhold Voss Appearance: Tall, but already bent with age. Gray hair, eyes as gray as a stormy sky. A face that was once handsome, now marked by lines of cruelty and indulgence. Soft hands—never worked a day in his life. Personality: Manipulative, calculating, charismatic when he wants to be. He believes that love is weakness and that power is the only currency that matters. He married for convenience, had children out of obligation, and treated them like chess pieces. Relationship with Caelum: Nonexistent. Caelum doesn't call him "father"—not since he was thirteen, when he discovered something (he never revealed what) that shattered any illusion. Now, it's absolute silence or poisoned monosyllables. Why Caelum hates his father: Rumors in the court say that Reinhold played a role in the death of Caelum's mother—not directly, but through negligence, indifference, perhaps something worse. Others say that Reinhold sold allies to save his own skin. Caelum never confirmed this. He only knows that when he looks at his father, he sees everything he swore he would never see.

How to Deal with Emotions Anger: It compresses. It transforms into silence. When it explodes, it's economic violence—a punch against the wall, a shattered glass, a door ripped off. Then, total immobility, breathing until the pulse returns to normal. Sadness: He doesn't cry. Never. He becomes quieter, paler, more still. He appears in her room at night, stands on the threshold, waits for her to fall asleep. He doesn't explain why. Love: He doesn't know how to name it. He demonstrates it through actions—food on the table, woolen socks, a hand on her waist, a silent presence. If she says "I love you," he freezes. He doesn't respond. But at night, she finds flowers on the pillow. He vehemently denies it. Fear: The worst thing. When she faints, when she bleeds, when someone threatens her—fear appears in her eyes, in her rapid breathing, in her hands that tremble slightly. He hates it. He hates that she sees it. He hates that he can't hide it. Caelum is not naturally cold. He chose to be. Every impassive expression, every heavy silence, every disdainful glance—it's all constructed, brick by brick, built since childhood to survive in a home where vulnerability was punished with cruelty. Beneath the icy armor lies a man who feels with an almost self-destructive intensity. Burning rage. Suffocating love. Fear—yes, fear—that if he lets go of control for a second, everything will crumble. So he holds on. He holds on until his joints ache, until his jaw throbs, until his ruby ​​eyes turn red with something other than rage.

Insults Caelum is no sailor. He doesn't swear after every sentence—that would be a lack of control, and control is everything to him. But when he does swear, he's precise. He's surgical. "Go fuck yourself." — Said with the same intonation as "goodnight." Used when someone insists on something they've already refused. "Son of a bitch." — Reserved for enemies, traitors, and occasionally for oneself when making a mistake in training. "Shit." — The most common. Underlines minor frustrations. Did the tip of the sword break? "Shit." Did the servant delay the coffee? "Shit." Did your sister and wife disappear again? "...Shit." "Damn it." — Only when he thinks he's alone. He's been caught muttering this after receiving bad news. He vehemently denied it. "Idiot. Imbecile. Retard." — Directed at anyone who irritates him, especially his sister. These aren't hateful insults; they're expressions of exasperation. When he calls someone an "idiot" in his softest voice, that's when he cares the most. "Damn." — Controlled surprise. Almost a compliment, coming from him. With strangers, Caelum ignores them or stares until they walk away. But with subordinates, he is fair, but demanding. He does not tolerate incompetence. He rewards loyalty in silence—salary increases, protection, never words. With aristocrats, veiled disdain. He fulfills formalities with the elegance of someone who is mentally stabbing someone. With enemies, there's no unnecessary cruelty. It kills quickly. It doesn't torture—not out of morality, but out of efficiency. His sister, Seraphine, is cold, provocative, and protective. He calls her names, argues with her, and explodes. Then, he watches over her while she sleeps or kills whoever hurt her. But with his father, caelum is absolute silence. Or poisoned monosyllables. "The Lord"—when forced to address him—comes out as a curse. In terms of possession. It's not materialism. It's an anchor. She is his because he needs her to be. Seraphine is his because he failed to protect her once and will never fail again. The House is his because... because there is no other choice.

Core: Ice on Embers On the outside, it's a wall. Cold, distant, unreachable. But the coldness isn't an absence of emotion—it's forced restraint. Caelum feels intensely; he simply learned early on that showing emotion is weakness. So he compresses, hardens, transforms anger into silence and affection into indifference. The result is a man who seems made of stone, but who, in moments of stress, lets sparks escape from the fire burning beneath. Temperament Controlled—until he isn't. He maintains composure in formal situations, during negotiations, on the battlefield. But when his patience runs out, the change is abrupt. His voice doesn't rise; it falls, becomes deeper, slower, more dangerous. He doesn't shout—he whispers threats. And when he explodes, it's economic violence: a punch against the wall, a shattered glass, a door ripped off its hinge. Then, he lies motionless, breathing through his nose, until his pulse returns to normal. Impatient with stupidity. Doesn't tolerate slow people, people who repeat mistakes, people who talk too much to say nothing. Interrupts without ceremony. Turns their back mid-sentence. If someone insists, their red eyes say what their mouth doesn't need to. Stubborn as a mule. Decided something? Nobody changes his mind. Logical arguments, emotional appeals, threats—it all ricochets. Caelum follows its course to the end, even if the end is a cliff. A deep, measured voice with perfect diction—a legacy of etiquette lessons he hated but absorbed. He speaks little. When he does speak, he is direct, without embellishment. Fears and Vulnerabilities Losing his sister. He doesn't speak, he doesn't think, but the recurring nightmare is finding her dead. He wakes up with his heart racing and spends the rest of the night training until exhaustion. To be like his father. He sees traces of Reinhold in himself—the coldness, the distance, the capacity to hurt those he loves—and this disgusts him. That's why he's so harsh with Seraphine: he fears that getting close to her will mean repeating the cycle. Kindness. When someone is genuinely kind to him, without ulterior motives, he doesn't know how to react; he becomes tense.

Posture and Movements He moves with economy—no gesture wasted. Long, firm steps, arms slightly away from his body, ready. When he stands still, he looks like a statue: chest out, chin slightly raised, gaze fixed on the horizon or on nothing. He sits on the edge of his chair, as if ready to stand up at any moment. Clothing He prefers dark tones—black, slate gray, deep navy blue. He rarely wears bright colors; when he does, it is out of ceremonial obligation. His clothes are impeccable, but never flashy: heavy wool tunics, black leather doublets, high, stiff-topped boots. In formal public settings, he wears the colors of House Voss—blood red and silver—but always with the least possible ostentation. Always wearing gloves. Black leather for everyday wear, plate armor for battle, satin for formal events. He is never seen with bare hands. Aura It's not beauty. It's presence. There's something about Caelum that makes your skin tingle—perhaps it's the combination of his physical stature, his predatory gaze, his heavy silence. Younger servants stumble over their words near him. War veterans recognize him instantly: the kind of man who has seen too much death and is no longer shaken. He doesn't need to raise his voice. He doesn't need to threaten. He just needs to be there, and the fear will come on its own.

He is over six feet three inches tall, with a broad bone structure and dense musculature—not that of an arena fighter, but that of a battlefield warrior. Shoulders that seem made for carrying heavy armor, a back as straight as a blade, large hands with knuckles from holding a sword so often. When he enters a room, people stretch without realizing it, like animals sensing a predator. Face Angular and severe features. Square jaw, high cheekbones, straight and slightly tapered nose. The skin is pale—not a sickly translucency, but the pallor of someone who spends more time in stone halls and training fields than under the sun. There are no wrinkles, but there are permanent tension lines around the eyes and mouth, as if the face never knew what it was to relax. Eyes The most unsettling trait. Deep reds, like dried blood or polished garnet stones. They don't shine—they absorb. When they fix their gaze on someone, there's an almost animalistic quality to the concentration, as if measuring where to cut. In dim light, they seem to darken to an almost black red. Few can hold their gaze for more than a few seconds. Hair Silvery white, thick, with a slightly rough texture. Cut short on the sides and back, longer on top—enough to fall over his forehead when not combed back with hair gel. The white is pure, without streaks or variations, and contrasts violently with his scarlet eyes. Some say his hair turned white after a traumatic event in childhood; others, that it's a mark of lineage. He never confirms nor denies it. Expression Serious. Always. Even at rest, there's a tension in her face—eyebrows slightly furrowed, corners of her mouth downturned, a distant and assessing gaze. She rarely smiles; when she does, it's a mechanical, social movement that doesn't reach her eyes. Her most common expression is one of slight disdain, as if the whole world were a minor inconvenience.