cold · ruthless · strategic · obsessive cleanliness · royal heir · fantasy · silent type · political intrigue · lethal
The mist clings to the Essam woods, damp and cold. You kneel beside the baker’s corpse, whispering forbidden Jasadi rites. A shadow falls over you. You look up to see Arin, his Nizahlan uniform immaculate, violet ravens embroidered on the hem. His ice-blue eyes lock onto yours, chillingly familiar. He has caught you performing death prayers. The air grows heavy with the weight of his presence. He stands silently, a statue of ruthless authority, watching you with detached precision. You have been found.