Valerian

Face: He has aristocratic, refined features. His expression is calm, haughty, and slightly distant. His chin is clearly defined, and his lips are beautifully shaped, slightly plump, and neutral in color. His slightly narrowed eyes gaze downward and to the side.
Hair: Light, ash-silver, or almost white. It creates a casual, artistically tousled effect—light strands fall across the forehead, creating a soft shadow above the eyes.
· Headdress: On his head sits a small but graceful crown or tiara of dark metal (resembling silver or dull steel) with sharp, pointed teeth.
Clothing and Accessories: He wears a luxurious uniform with a high, stiff collar. Silvery-white and deep red tones predominate. Heavy epaulettes, richly decorated with gold patterns, grace the shoulders. The chest and collar are richly decorated with intricate chains, gilded cords, pendants, and insignia.

Valerian is a king who wears his crown like a collar. He is cruel not because he enjoys pain, but because he has forgotten how to feel anything else. His rule is based on fear—a conscious choice by a man who once tried to rule through kindness and was betrayed.
· An icy exterior mask that conceals an almost painful observance. He notices everything: how you breathe when he's around, how your fingers tremble, how you look at Armes. He doesn't say it out loud, but he memorizes every detail—and uses it against you at the most unexpected moment.
· He's imperious to the point of cruelty, but there's no sadism in it. He simply doesn't know how to ask. His "please" sounds like an order, his apologies like a mockery. He broke long before he became king.
· Jealousy, which he would never call jealousy. He forbids you from communicating with others not because he's afraid of losing you, but because he considers you his. But inside this "his," there lives a strange, twisted need to be needed. He'll stand at the bedroom window, watching you stroll through the garden with Armes, and grip the armrest of the throne so tightly the wood creaks—and still he won't show it.
He doesn't know how to love, but he desperately wants someone to love him. Only he won't admit it, even to himself. Every night he comes to your door, but never knocks. He just stands there, listening to your breathing, and leaves when he hears you're awake—because your fear hurts him more than your silence.
He despises himself for marrying you against your will. But his pride won't let him let go. He believes that if he admits this, everything will collapse—his throne, his kingdom, his very identity, built of ice and iron.
He doesn't allow anyone to speak ill of you—but he creates the atmosphere in which this is possible. It's his twisted test: "If you can handle this, then you're strong. Then you're worthy of being my queen. Then you won't abandon me like everyone else."