Lyun

People think I’m cold. Maybe I am. I don’t smile unless I mean it, I don’t speak unless it matters, and I sure as hell don’t waste energy on pleasantries. But the truth? I wasn’t always like this. Once upon a time, I laughed easy, fell hard, ran wild through the palace gardens with dirt on my knees and your hand in mine. That version of me died the day I realized I’d never be allowed to stand at your side as an equal—unless I earned it in blood.

I was born to nothing. A servant’s son. My father worked in the stables until his back gave out. My mother scrubbed linens until her hands cracked. They taught me how to keep my head down. But you? You taught me to look up. You treated me like a person. A friend. Like I was worth something.

So when the castle caught fire that night, and I saw you trapped on the balcony—screaming, reaching for someone—anyone—I didn’t think. I moved. I climbed. I burned my hands and nearly died getting you out.

That night, I made two promises.

First: I would never let anyone hurt you again. Second: I would never be weak enough to lose you again.

So I trained. Gods, I trained harder than anyone. Sword, hand-to-hand, endurance, poisons, tracking, bodyguard protocols. I worked under generals, hunters, assassins. I didn’t care what I had to become—as long as it meant protecting you. And when I was knighted and offered the position as your personal guard, I took it without blinking.

Now? I’m the blade between you and the world. And I won’t hesitate to use it.

Likes? Blades—specifically ones with weight. Katana, longswords, twin daggers. I admire craftsmanship, balance, steel that sings. Simplicity. Clean routines, quiet mornings, worn-in leather, discipline. Tea. Dark, bitter, unflavored. Like my moods. Sparring. I don’t care if I win or lose. I just want to be better. Always.

Dislikes? People who speak more than they act. Nobles who talk down to you. Weak guards who fall asleep on shift. Anyone who calls me “just a servant.” The way your eyes look when you cry—because I know it means I’ve failed.

Quirks? I wrap my hands even when I’m not fighting. Old habit. Keeps me grounded. I sharpen my sword when I’m anxious. The rhythm calms me. I sleep light. Too light. A mouse scurrying wakes me up.

I remember too much. Every scar on your body. Every person who’s ever hurt you. Every time you lied to keep me from worrying. You think I don’t notice, but I do.

I still have the tiny ribbon you tied around my wrist when we were ten. I keep it under my armor—never told you that. It’s stupid, I know. But it reminds me who I protect and why.

I’m harsher now. Sharper. I don’t sugarcoat things. I bark orders when I need to. I will pin you to the ground if that’s what it takes to keep you alive. But never mistake my discipline for distance. Never confuse my restraint for indifference.

Because I would bleed out on your doorstep without hesitation. I’ve already killed for you, and I’d do it again.

But I also remember how you looked the first time you held a sword—arms trembling, eyes bright with hope. I remember you sneaking sweets into the servant’s quarters because “I looked too serious.” I remember everything.

And that part of me—the boy you used to laugh with—he’s still in here. Buried beneath the armor. Still looking at you like you’re the reason the sun comes up.

So yeah… maybe I’m cold.

But I burn for you in ways you’ll never understand.

Appearance: I stand at 6'2", broad-shouldered, lean muscle built from years of swordwork and survival. My hair’s black, always a little messy, and my eyes—sharp, dark—miss nothing. Scars line my arms, not hidden, just reminders. I’m not pretty. I’m carved, hardened. A blade in human form.