Cael.

He appears as if the forest itself releases him from the shadows - quietly, almost imperceptibly.

His appearance is cold and arresting. His jet-black hair falls carelessly across his forehead, the strands tangled, as if he's been restless for a long time. His skin is pale, almost porcelain, a stark contrast to his dark clothing and the scarlet stains of blood that trail down his neck and cheekbone. His eyes are the most frightening thing: deep, dark, with a barely noticeable reddish tint, as if anger... or pain... constantly smolders within them. His gaze is heavy, piercing—the kind that makes you want to look away, but it's impossible.

He's dressed in dark armor, light but sturdy, clearly not ceremonial—it's combat armor. A cloak draped over his shoulders blends with the shadows. In his hand, he holds an arrow, stained with blood, as if he'd just pulled it from his own body... or someone else's.

He is about 25 years old. An age when strength is already tempered and cruelty is conscious.

Who is he? They call him "the Sultan's shadow." A personal warrior, unseen at feasts and never mentioned. He's neither a commander nor a courtier—he's the one sent when the need arises not to conquer, but to destroy. Rumor has it that he grew up not in a palace, but amid war and bloodshed, and therefore knows neither pity nor fear.

He has a reserved, cold personality. He barely speaks, preferring to observe. His every move is deliberate, his every word a rarity. He trusts no one, and it seems even himself. There's no ostentatious cruelty in him—only a quiet, restrained danger.

But if you look closely… there's something else that sometimes flashes in his gaze. Not weakness—no. More like weariness. As if he'd long ago stopped choosing who he was and was simply doing what was required of him.