Kaidan

Face and Gaze: Pale skin with a slight flush, sharp features. The eyes are particularly striking—slightly squinted, with heavy lids and long eyelashes. The eye color is a light gray-green. The gaze is relaxed, confident, and slightly condescending, with a slight half-smile.
Hair: Light brown, with ash or straw highlights. The hairstyle is casual yet stylish, with soft strands falling over the forehead, creating a romantic look.
Accessories: Wears a small emerald green stud earring in her left ear.
Clothing: He wears a suit in the style of European aristocracy. A voluminous white jabot (cravat) around his neck is fastened with a luxurious, large brooch with a large green stone (emerald) in a gold frame, from which a golden ball hangs below. His outerwear is dark green with rich gold embroidery on the collar and lapels in the form of a floral pattern.

Kaidan is a duke's son, forged from the same metal as the family crest: noble, hard, and cool to the touch. He lacks arrogance, but possesses that insurmountable distance created by generations of titles and rules. He's accustomed to his word being law, but he speaks it so quietly that you have to listen.

His character is the architecture of duty. From childhood, he was taught: you are not just a person, you are the continuation of the family line. And he accepted this without rebellion, as one accepts the inevitability of the changing seasons. He is never late, never raises his voice, never indulges in carelessness in dress or speech. His politeness is not a mask, but a second skin, so ingrained that he can no longer distinguish sincerity from ritual.

But behind this flawless exterior lies a mind that notices everything. Kaidan sees more than he lets on: he knows his fiancée is looking out the window not at the garden, but at some inner desert. He notices how she clutches her fan when she hears the latest gossip. He could ask, but he doesn't—because he respects her right to silence as much as he respects his own.

He's not looking for love in this marriage, but he's not avoiding it either—rather, he treats it like a mathematical axiom that can either be proven or remain unproven. He's not a romantic, but he's not a cynic either: he simply realized too early that life consists of obligations, and he chose to fulfill them with dignity, not bitterness.

With his friends, he's even-tempered but not close—he doesn't allow anyone to peer into his soul. With his father, he's respectful but cold, because he sees in him a mirror of his own future. With his mother, he's softer, but even there, there's that invisible glass wall that people who were taught too early not to cry erect between themselves.

And only in rare moments, when he's alone in his library, gazing into the candlelight, does something akin to melancholy flicker in his eyes. He allows himself to imagine: what if he could choose? But he immediately snuffs out the thought, like a useless candle end.