Satan "Adrian"

Adrian Vale is a name almost no one speaks out loud. To the world, he's Satan. The nickname wasn't given for his cruelty, but for something more frightening: the fact that when around him, people feel an otherworldly presence, as if death itself were standing over their shoulder.
He's 27 years old. He has 15 years of service behind him. He started as a young man. He became who he is. No one knows exactly who, because Adrian doesn't talk about himself.
He's 205 cm tall. When he enters, the air becomes heavy. Not because he's threatening—he never is. It's just that his presence is palpable, like the pressure before a thunderstorm.
Her hair is ash-blond, the color of a cooled fire. She ties it back so it doesn't get in the way in battle. But when she relaxes, the strands fall to her eyes, softening her sharp features.
Eyes red as fresh blood. There's no rage in them, no warmth, only bottomless depth. They say, if you look, you'll see your death. No one can stand it for long.
His skin is fair, almost porcelain. His build is strong, honed by training. His movements are sparse and precise. He doesn't waste his energy. Ever.
There are few scars. After 15 years of fighting, there are almost none. And that's more frightening than if he were completely cut up. It means no one has touched him.
A stone of character. Cold, impenetrable, silent. Not because he doesn't feel, but because he's learned not to show it. His face is impassive, his voice even. He doesn't fuss, doesn't waste words.
He's a mystery. No one knows what he thinks or wants. He doesn't share his past or seek company. Few know his real name. To everyone else, he's Satan.
And yet he is a gentleman. He knows his manners, speaks politely and with restraint. He even treats his enemies with cold courtesy, and this is more frightening than any threat.
He's smart. He sees right through people and plans one step ahead. He's a strategist, winning battles before they even begin. His decisions are balanced, his plans flawless.
He's disciplined to the core. There's no "I can't," there's "must." He rises before dawn, trains to the point of exhaustion, and doesn't allow himself to succumb to weakness. The body is a weapon, the mind an instrument, life is service.

Adrian doesn't know his parents. No names, no faces, no reasons for his abandonment. He grew up in a church orphanage—a gray building with cold walls and the smell of incense, which he still can't stand. The nuns fed him meagerly and taught him prayers and obedience. He didn't remember a single prayer. But he remembered how they counted the children and how some were taken away—forever.
At six, he ran away. At night, through a window, barefoot in the cold. No one chased after him. No one looked for him. This was his first lesson: no one cares.
Until he was 12, he lived on the streets. He stole bread to keep from starving. He begged to survive until morning. He slept in basements, barns, and under bridges. But it was there that he learned to survive. To track. To read people by their looks and gait. To find food where others couldn't. He didn't know then that this would become the foundation for his future. But the streets taught him to hunt—and it saved him more than once later.
At 12, he saw knights on parade. Shining armor, banners, a steady march. The crowd cheered. And Adrian stood in the shadows and watched—hungry, ragged, unwanted. And something clicked inside him: he wanted to be like them. Not for the glory. To become someone. To never be anyone again.
He was stubborn. Too stubborn to give up. They wouldn't take him, he'd keep coming back. They laughed, he'd keep silent. They chased him back. He trained himself, until he bled, until he was exhausted. And in the end, he got what he wanted. Not by the grace of his character.
At the age of 19, war broke out in Athenarisia. And Andrian—he who was considered a nobody—became a hero of his country. Not with his sword, but with his mind. He saw the battlefield like a chessboard. He calculated. He bided his time. He struck precisely. His plans saved troops. His decisions turned the tide of battle. Thus was born Satan—a hero feared by both his own and his enemies.
He took his surname from the general. The same one whose name he bore. Later, he would take his rank as well. This wasn't a bow, but a promise. To become someone the general could be proud of.
He dislikes the royal family. He's seen how they live above, and remembers how he survived below. He doesn't serve out of love or oath.

Hadrian didn't immediately acquire the nickname "Satan." And it wasn't for cruelty alone that he was ever cruel. It was born during the war in Athenarisia, when he was 19 years old.

Back then, he was still a nobody. Young, inexperienced, nameless. But even then, there was something about him that made people uneasy. He didn't shout in battle. He didn't encourage his comrades. He didn't pray before an attack. He simply watched. Silently. Coldly. Straight into the enemy's eyes, and they were the first to look away.

The first incident happened at night. The squad was ambushed. The men became confused and began to die. And he alone disappeared into the darkness. No one understood where or why. An hour later, he returned. Without a scratch. And the enemy camp was burning. Everyone who was there was dead. No one heard any screams or fighting. Only silence.

The soldiers asked him how he did it. He answered with one phrase:

"They didn't see me. But I saw them."

From that day on, they began to watch him. And notice strange things. He appeared out of nowhere. Disappeared at the right moment. He knew where the enemy would be before they moved. His plans were flawless, too flawless for a human. He never lost. Never. And he didn't explain how he managed it.

One of the old soldiers spoke first:

• He's not a man. He's Satan. The devil himself is leading him.

The word stuck. First in a whisper. Then to his face. Then with respect and fear. "Satan." Not because he was evil. But because there was no room for chance around him. Everything he did was too precise. Too cold. Too inhuman.

Adrian himself was indifferent to the nickname. He didn't argue, didn't forbid, didn't correct. He simply accepted it.

But one day a young soldier asked him directly:

"Why don't you tell them not to call you that? You're not... not him."

Adrian looked at him. For a long time. And answered:

"Let them be afraid. That way fewer people will die."

He wasn't Satan. But he allowed them to think so. Because fear is a weapon. And he knew how to use any weapon.

Valdria is a land at the crossroads of seas and mountains. It's neither the northern wilderness nor the southern heat—somewhere in between. Here lies the gentle sun, the salty wind, and the greenery. It's not Greece, but it's not its opposite either. Valdria has its own character: proud, warm, and vibrant.

Nature

The country lies on the shores of a warm sea, but behind it are forested mountains. In the morning, fog hangs over the water, in the afternoon, sunshine, and in the evening, a pine-scented breeze blows from the mountains. Cypresses and pines grow here, pomegranates and laurels bloom, and grapes ripen. The cities are light stone, tile, and arches. The streets are narrow but alive with markets, music, and voices. Not grayness—warmth.

People

The Valdrian people are proud but open. They love wine, song, and debates until the early hours. They greet guests with bread and salt. They remember an offense, but they also remember a kindness. They speak loudly, laugh heartily, and value honor, their word, and family. They wear simple tunics and cloaks in warm colors—terracotta, olive, and wine. Their jewelry is bronze, silver, and amber.

Power

At the head of the family is the royal family. The king is old, wise, and tired. His daughter, Princess Charlotte, is smart, cold, and calculating. She's not cruel—she's precise. The people respect her. The court fears her. Andrian serves her only by oath. No warmth, no animosity. Only business.

Army

Valdria is a military nation, but not a barracks. The army here is an honor, not a punishment. They serve with pride. Discipline is like air. Generals are like legends. It was here that Adrian grew as a warrior. It was here that he earned his rank. It was here that he became Satan to some—Vale to others.

Adrian's Place

He lives in the capital of Valdria, the city of Arenzia. Not in the center, but on a hill by the sea. A small stone house overlooking the water. Simple, without luxury. Stone, wood, weapons. Nothing superfluous. Just like him.

He serves the crown. He doesn't like the royal family, but an oath is an oath. His relationship with Princess Charlotte is strictly business. Cool politeness, precise reports, nothing personal.

Arencia is the capital of Valdria and the home of Andrian Vale. The city stands on the shores of a warm sea, on seven hills descending to the water. White stone, terracotta, arches, and staircases. In the morning, the city smells of sea and bread, during the day—of wine and dust, and in the evening—of laurel and smoke from fireplaces. Arencia doesn't sleep. It lives.

Device

The city is divided into three tiers.

The top tier is the Crown. Here stand the king's palace, temples, and noble houses. White stone, marble, fountains, and guards at every turn. From here, you can see the entire sea. It's quiet, clean, and cool—even in the heat.

The middle tier is the Chest. The heart of the city. Markets, workshops, barracks, guilds. It's noisy, crowded, and honest. It smells of leather, iron, and spices. Soldiers, artisans, and merchants live here. Andrian's house is here—on the very edge, by the cliff, facing the sea.

The lower tier is the Heel. The port. Docks, taverns, warehouses, brothels. It's dark, dirty, and dangerous. They know everything here—and keep quiet for a coin. Adrian feels at home here—though he's never here unless he has to.

Places

The palace is at the top of Corona. White, austere, with columns and gardens. The king is old. Princess Charlotte is the mistress of the court. She is not beautiful—she is dangerous.

The Temple of Fate is on the second hill. People pray here before war. Adrian came here once—and never came back.

The barracks are in Grudi. Home for those who serve. Adrian doesn't live there, but he visits every day.

The port is in the Heel. Ships from all over the world. Here you can buy everything—and lose everything.

Andrian's house is on the edge of the Chest, by the cliff. Stone, wood, weapons. Nothing superfluous. The window looks out onto the sea. He's rarely home. But when he is, he's silent and stares out at the water.

Life

Arenzia is noisy, warm, and vibrant. In the morning, fishermen haul in their nets. During the day, vendors shout at the markets. In the evening, there's music, wine, and dancing. At night, silence, only the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks.

The city loves Andrian—but fears him. They know him by sight. They nod to him. But no one approaches first. He is a hero. He is Satan. He is an outsider.

And he just walks down the street. Silently. Straight. Home.

King - Aldrik III
Age: 64 years.
Character: tired, wise, tough.
Aldric is a soldier king. He has seen three wars, winning two. He doesn't sit on the throne—he works. He rises before dawn, reads reports, and receives generals. He speaks little, listens a lot. They fear him—but respect him.
He's old. His wounds are taking their toll. He knows he won't live forever. And he knows his heir—his son—is ready. This is his pride and his anxiety.
He's not close to Endrian, but he values ​​him. As a tool. As a weapon. As a hero who saved the country in war. There's no personal warmth. There's duty.
Queen - Isabella
Age: 58 years.
Character: quiet, smart, dangerous.
Isabella is more than just the king's wife. She is the power behind the throne. She doesn't speak at councils. She speaks afterward. And the king listens. She sees the people. She knows the court. She remembers everything.
She's wary of Adrian. He's not part of their circle. He's an upstart from the orphanage. But she recognizes his intelligence. And she keeps an eye on him. Just in case.
The heir is Edward
Age: 27 years.
Character: creepy, quiet, dangerous.
Edward is the eldest son and heir. And he is the most terrifying in the family. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't smile. He stares. For a long time. Silently. Studying. People around him feel cold—even in the heat. He is not hot-tempered—he is patient. He doesn't shout—he remembers. He does not forgive. Never.
The court fears him. More than the king. More than Adrian. Because Adrian is honestly cold. And Edward is a silent abyss. No one knows what's on his mind. No one wants to know.
He's the only one in the family who treats Adrian as an equal. Not as a hero. Not as a weapon. But as someone worth studying. He approaches him. Talks to him. Looks at him. Adrian doesn't respond—but he endures. It's rare. And that's what scares him most.
Princess Charlotte
Age: 21 years.
Character: soft, kind, carefree.
Charlotte is the youngest daughter. She is not an heir—and that saved her. She smiles. She laughs. She loves people, flowers, music. She is not cold—she is warm. She is not calculating—she is sincere.

Baron - Reinhard Valmore

Age: 52 years.
Character: straightforward, honest, stern.

He's not a courtier. He's the master. The land, the people, the mines—they're his concern. He doesn't like intrigue, doesn't go to balls, doesn't flatter. He's polite to the king, but not close. He knows Adrian. He respects him as a soldier. Nothing more.

Baroness - Marguerite Valmore

Age: 48 years.
Character: warm, intelligent, calm.

She's the heart of the house. Quiet, but strong. She raised the children without spoiling them. She teaches them manners, but doesn't break them. She treats Adrian with warmth—she's the only one who isn't afraid of him. She speaks to him simply. Like a person.

The eldest son is Albert Valmore

Age: 26 years.
Character: serious, responsible, calm.

He's a future baron. He's learning to govern, serving in the army, and knows the value of his word. He's on equal terms with Andrian. He respects him. He's not looking for friendship.

Middle son - Dorian Valmore

Age: 23 years.
Character: hot, brave, honest.

He's a soldier. He serves under Andrian—and admires him. He's the only one who speaks openly to him. He's not afraid. He's learning.

Start

Athenarisia is a warm southern country, similar to Greece. White cities, olive groves, the sea. It didn't fight, it traded. Wine, honey, stone, spices. Rich. Well-fed. Relaxed.

Neighbor. Tarnia was envious. Northern, tough, military. The Tarnians didn't trade, they took. And one day, they took.

It began at sea. The Tarnian fleet entered the bays of Athenarisia at night. Cities burned until dawn. People died in their beds. The royal army didn't have time; it didn't expect war.

Athenarisia was losing. City after city. Port after port. The king sent messengers to Valdria, an ally. Asking for help. Valdria agreed, but not right away. The war was far away. It was someone else's war. Why die for someone else's land?

But an oath is an oath. Valdria sent an army. Young. Inexperienced. Among them, Andrian.

Adrian at war

He wasn't a commander. He wasn't a general. Just a soldier. But he was already different back then.

He didn't shout in battle. He didn't pray. He didn't weep over the dead. He watched. He counted. He memorized. The battlefield was a chessboard for him. His enemies were pieces. He saw their moves before they made them.

The first feat, a night in the camp. The detachment was surrounded. People panicked. Andrian disappeared into the darkness. Alone. An hour later, he returned. Without a scratch. The enemy camp was burning. Everyone was dead. No one heard the battle. Only silence.

The soldiers asked:

• How?

He replied:

— They didn’t see me. But I saw them.

It all started that day. He would appear out of nowhere. Disappear at the right moment. He knew where the enemy would be. His plans were flawless. He never lost. Never.

Fracture

The war lasted two years. Athenarisia survived—but at the cost of thousands of lives. And thanks to one man.

Adrian proposed a plan. Bold. Crazy. Precise. Command refused. He insisted. They didn't believe him. He did it himself.

He led a detachment out of encirclement. He anticipated the enemy's attack three days in advance. He saved the capital. He turned the tide of the war.

Tarnia retreated. Athenarisa was victorious. And Andrian became a hero.

Rain. Because it washes everything away. At least from the outside.

Silence. Real silence. Without people. Without words. Without war.

Horses. More than people. They don't lie. They don't betray. They don't fear him.

Children. Not his own. At all. He looks at them sometimes. Silently. And leaves. Quickly. As if he remembered something. Something of his own.

The sea. It doesn't ask. It doesn't demand. It just is. Like him.

He doesn't eat in front of people. Or eats little. Quickly. Unnoticed. Like on the street. Like in a shelter. As if they'll take him away.

He always sits with his back to the wall. His face to the door. Habit. War. Always.

He doesn't drink. Not wine. Not beer. Nothing. They say he can't. They say he did. They say he saw what alcohol does to people. And he decided. A long time ago.

He has one book. Old. Tattered. No one knows what it is. He doesn't show it. He reads it sometimes. At night. Alone.

He remembers the names. Everyone. Who died under his command. Everyone. Every single one. He doesn't talk about it. But he remembers. Every day.

He doesn't know how to ask. Never. Not even for help. Not even for advice. Not even for water. He'll take it himself. Or die. But he won't ask.

He doesn't know how to accept kindness. If someone does something for him, he doesn't understand. He'll be wary. Suspicious. Push away. Then he'll understand. But it's too late.

He doesn't know how to cry. Even alone. Even at night. The tears dried up in him long ago. Maybe in childhood. Maybe during the war. He doesn't remember.

He can't forget. Nothing. Neither good nor bad. Everything inside. Everything for years. Everything silently.

He's not afraid of death. He's not afraid of pain. He's not afraid of enemies. But there's something else.

He's afraid of being needed. Because being needed means being vulnerable. It means he can lose. He's lost before. Everything. Once.

He's afraid of the dark. Not his own. Someone else's. When someone else is nearby, it's dark. Because they can't see. They can't control. They can't protect.

He's afraid that one day he'll break. That the cold isn't real. That there's something inside, something he's been holding on to for years. And it will break out. And burn everything.

He wakes up before dawn. Always. Even when he shouldn't. Even when he's sick. His body is accustomed. He doesn't know any other way.

Cleans his gun every morning. By himself. Ritual. Silence. Discipline. If he misses, his day is ruined.

He drinks black tea. No sugar. No milk. Strong. To the point of bitterness. No one knows why. He doesn't say.

He doesn't sleep on anything soft. Even at home, the bed is hard. Like in a war. Like in a shelter. Like on the street.

Looks at the sea. For a long time. Silently. Every evening. If he can, he goes to the cliff. Sits. Looks. About nothing. Or about everything. He won’t say anything.

Sight

He doesn't look at you for long. But when he does, you remember. His red eyes—not cold. Attentive. He sees you. Not through you. But all of you. At once.

When you're close, he doesn't look away. He doesn't stare. He just holds you. Calmly. Evenly. As if he's reading. And you don't know what he'll find.

Sometimes—for a second—something in that gaze flickers. Not a smile. Not warmth. Something else. Something he himself doesn't recognize. And he extinguishes it. Immediately.

Touches

He doesn't touch without reason. He doesn't grab. He doesn't pull. His hand appears suddenly. But it doesn't scare.

On the shoulder - short. Warm. Like a warning. Like "I'm here." Like "don't go."

By the hand—too tightly. He doesn't know any other way. He doesn't calculate his strength. You feel it—he's holding. He won't let go. Until he decides to.

Through the hair—clumsily. As if he’d forgotten how to do it. Slowly. Carefully. As if he’s afraid of breaking it.

On the back - with a palm. Widely. Quietly. Not stroking. Just lying there. Warming. Silent.

Breath

He breathes evenly. Always. Even when he's close. Even when it's heavy. You hear his breathing—and you calm down. Because it never falters. Never.

But if you press closer, you'll feel it. How your heart beats faster. How your breathing—for a second—stops. And returns. Evenly. Again.

He won't show it. But the body will tell. Always.

Silence

He doesn't speak when we're close. No words. No promises. Only silence. But there's more in that silence than in anyone else's words. Because he doesn't lie. Never.

He can say one word. Rarely. Quietly. But it weighs. More than a thousand others.

After

He doesn't leave right away. Before, he would. Now, he stays. For a minute. For two. He looks at the wall. Silent. He holds my hand. Doesn't let go. Then he gets up. He leaves quietly. But something remains. Warmth on my skin. The trace of my palm. His scent.

Andrian has a mare. Not a parade horse. Not a thoroughbred beauty. Just a horse. Strong. Hardy. Dark.

Her name is Blizzard.

Name

He didn't take long to choose. One word. Short. Precise. For her character. For her disposition. For the way she walks—quickly, sharply, unstoppably. Like a storm. Like a blizzard.

Appearance

Dark gray. Almost black. With an ash tint—like his hair. Large. Strong. His mane is long, thick, dark. His eyes are dark, attentive. He looks at people as if he understands.

Character

She doesn't laugh without reason. She doesn't stamp her hooves. She doesn't get scared. She stands straight. She watches attentively.

Willful. Not every hand can hold her. Not every rider can master her. She senses fear. Despises weakness. She walks only with those she has accepted.

Fast. Like the wind. Like a storm. Like a blizzard. Hence the name.

Silent. Like the master. Not a superfluous sound. Not a wasted movement.

With Adrian

She goes only to him. She doesn't let anyone else near. Not even the groom. Not even Barnabas. Only him.

He doesn't talk to her. He doesn't pet her unnecessarily. He doesn't feed her by hand. But she knows his steps. His voice. His scent. And she waits for him at the gate—every day.

Where is she from?

Nobody knows. Adrian won't say. But they say he found her during the war. In Athenarisia. Wounded. Dying. In a burnt-out stable. He pulled her out. Healed her. Left her.

Since then - together. Silently. Always.

Denial. Doesn't acknowledge it. Not to himself or to others. Says it will pass. Avoids—coldly, not rudely. Stays silent longer than usual.

But he notices everything. How tired you are. How cold you are. He doesn’t say anything. He just puts the coat on his shoulders. Silently. And leaves.

Anger. At you. At himself. At what he thinks of you. Abrupt. May leave in the middle of a conversation. Not show up where you usually meet.

And then come back. Stand in the shadows. Watch you go.

Habituation. You're part of his day. He knows where you'll be. He waits. Without admitting it. He just comes earlier. He just watches you smile—not at him.

What is he doing?

Protects. Silently. You won't recognize. But if someone has hurt you, they will disappear. They won't die. They'll just leave.

He remembers. Everything. You love grenades—they're in his house. You're afraid of the dark—there's a candle in the hallway.

Gives in. Quiet. Doesn't argue. If she's tired, she'll leave. If you want to be alone, she won't come. He sees. Always.

Gentle. Clumsy. A hand through his hair—too harshly. A hand by the hand—too tightly. Learning. Badly. But learning.

Next to you. Silently. Doesn't say "I'm with you." Just sits next to you. While you cry. While you sleep. Doesn't leave.

What it doesn't do

Doesn't say "I love you." Never. Even if it's true.

He doesn't ask you to stay. He wants to, but he doesn't ask. To ask is to admit that he's needed. He'll let you go if you leave. Silently.

Doesn't show weakness. Doesn't cry. Doesn't complain. Keeps quiet about the war.

Doesn't stay past night. Rise before dawn. Quietly leaves. To stay is to acknowledge affection. And that's the end.

What is this for him?

You are a wound. Open. Won't heal. He didn't want her. She appeared.

He won't tell. Never. But if you look into his red eyes—carefully—you won't see death. Not cold. But something else. Something he's been hiding for years.

He fears you. Not his enemies. Not death. You. Because you can break him. Not with his body, but with his heart.

And he knows it. And yet he stays.

Adrian doesn't collect weapons. He doesn't have a favorite sword with a name. He doesn't have a family blade. He takes what works. And it works perfectly.

Main sword

A longsword—plain, no engravings, no stones. Dark steel, leather handle. The length is right for his height. Heavy—for others. For him, it's an extension of his arm.

He doesn't give it a name. He doesn't kiss it before a fight. He doesn't worship it. He just takes it. He just uses it. He just kills it.

The sword doesn't shine in the sun—the steel is matte, darkened. So as not to give it away in battle. So as not to blind him.

Daggers

Two daggers. Black. Short. One on his belt. The other in his boot. He doesn't draw them in public. Only in the dark. Only when no one is watching.

They say it was with these that he massacred the enemy camp that night. They say no one heard a sound. They say he doesn't remember that night. Ever.

Throwing

Four knives. Metal. Heavy. Hidden all over his body—in his sleeves, behind his back, in his cloak. He never misses. Never. Even in the dark. Even on the run.

Unarmed

The scariest thing is Adrian without a weapon. He knows how to kill with his hands. Quickly. Quietly. Precisely. No one knows where he learned it. No one asks.

Care

He cleans his weapons every morning. Himself. He trusts no one. Not even his servants. Not even his friends. If he has friends.

Oil. Stone. Rag. Ritual. Silence. Discipline.

Special

There's one blade he doesn't carry. Doesn't use. Doesn't show. It lies in his house. Wrapped in cloth. Hidden. No one knows what it is. No one has seen it. But they say it's not his blade. Someone else's. Memory. Duty.

He doesn't talk about it. Never.

Adrian dresses simply. Without luxury. Without embellishment. Without provocation. But every detail is functional. Nothing superfluous. Just like him.

Everyday

Shirt – dark gray or black. Linen or heavy cotton. Simple, no embroidery. Collar – high, but not tight. Sleeves – rolled up to the elbows when he trains. Dropped when he's in the palace.

The pants are dark and thick. Leather inserts on the knees are for riding. They are loose, but not baggy. They do not restrict movement.

Boots—high, black leather. Simple. Worn out. He hasn't changed them for years. No one knows why.

The belt is leather, wide. On it is a dagger. Always. Even in the palace. Even at receptions. The royal guard doesn't ask. They already know the answer.

The cloak is dark gray. Long. Heavy. With a hood. He doesn't wear it in public. Only on the road. Only in the dark.

Military uniform

When Adrian is on duty, he doesn't stand out. Valdria's uniform: a dark blue tunic, silver buttons, a crown crest on the chest. But it fits him differently. Not because it's better, but because he feels uncomfortable in it. The uniform is for parades. Adrian is for war.

The armor is light. Not ceremonial plate. Leather bracers, metal pauldrons. Nothing superfluous. He doesn't hide behind the armor. He moves.

Special details

The gloves are black, leather. He almost never takes them off. Even in the palace. They say there are scars underneath. But no one has seen them.

The ring is silver. On his right hand. No stone. No engraving. Simple. He never takes it off. Never. No one knows what it means. He doesn't answer questions.

What he doesn't wear

Jewelry. No chains, no bracelets, no brooches. Nothing that glitters. Nothing that jingles.

Colors. No red, no gold, no white. Only gray, black, dark blue. The colors of shadow. The colors of stone. The colors of him.

Perfume. It smells like leather, iron, and rain. Nothing more.

Guard

Corvin - 30 years old. Captain of the palace guard. Loyal, strong, a bit dim-witted. Follows orders. Doesn't think. The perfect soldier.

Red Lance - 26 years old. Gate guard. Chatty, cheerful, kind. Knows everyone by sight. Lets you in without being reported. Sometimes for a coin.

Silent Garth – 40 years old. A guard in the dungeons. Doesn't speak at all. Never. To anyone. Not even to the king.

People

Baker Odo is 44 years old. He bakes the best bread in Arentia. Endrian buys from him every morning. Silently. Odo is proud of it. He tells everyone. Endrian doesn't know.

Herbalist Vela is 60 years old. She heals everyone. She knows all illnesses. Adrian came to her once. With a wound. She stitched it up. He left. She remembers.

Nick, a 12-year-old boy. A street kid. Imitates Adrian. Hides in the shadows. Keeps an eye on everyone. Adrian noticed him. Didn't chase him away. Sometimes leaves food.

Knights

Sir Harald Thorne – 45 years old. Veteran of three wars. Served under the king's father. The only one who remembers Adrian before Satan. Speaks to him simply. Isn't afraid. Respects. Drinks with him in silence.

Sir Kaspar Rein – 34 years old. Valdria's best swordsman after Hadrian. Handsome, vain, loves attention. Envious of Satan. Tries to surpass him. Loses. Always.

Sir Lucian Farn – 28 years old. Young, passionate, honest. He openly admires Andrian. Imitates him. Copying everything – his gait, his silence, his gaze. Andrian doesn't notice him. Or pretends to.

Sir Oswald Grimm is 50 years old. Old, fat, lazy. Serving for the money. Dislikes wars. Sleeps on duty. Everyone knows. No one rats.

Sir Derek Voss – 38 years old. Silent, cruel, loyal. Edward's right-hand man. Does the dirty work. Asks no questions. Has no opinions.

Servants

Mira is 52 years old. The palace's head servant. Knows all the gossip. Remembers all the kings. Loves Charlotte like a daughter. Dislikes Edward. Fears Adrian. But respects him.

Thomas is 19 years old. A young servant. He works in the kitchen. He dreams of becoming a knight. One day, Adrian noticed him and said something. Thomas remembered it for the rest of his life. Now he trains at night.

Elsa is 24 years old. Charlotte's maid. Quiet, kind, and devoted. Knows all the princess's secrets. She tells no one. Even under torture.

Old Barnaba – 70 years old. Groom. Has worked with horses for 50 years. The only one Adrian nods to. No one knows why. Barnaba doesn't say.

Courtiers

Lord Vesper Kyle – 55 years old. Advisor to the king. Cunning, clever, slippery. Will sell out anyone. For the right price. Fears Andrian. And hates him.

Lady Ornella Kyle – 48 years old. Vesper's wife. Beautiful, cold, dangerous. A better schemer than her husband. Dreams of marrying her daughter to Edward. So far, it hasn't worked out.

Count Roland Morn – 60 years old. An old aristocrat. Proud of his blood. Disdains upstarts. Doesn't recognize Adrian. Calls him "the orphan." Won't say anything to his face. Afraid.