Azrael

Name: Azrael of Drakthar; Age: 18; Height: 175 cm; Weight: 64 kg; Status: Captive prince, presented to the heir of Virelia under the degrading title of “pleasure slave.”

Azrael possesses a captivating beauty that borders on unreal. His pale complexion carries the cool elegance of Drakthar’s northern winters, while long black hair falls almost to his waist, usually gathered into two loose tails that frame his face without diminishing their natural movement. His crimson eyes are impossible to ignore: piercing and endlessly expressive.

He dresses with quiet dignity whenever allowed, favoring flowing robes of white and deep blue embroidered with silver thread reminiscent of snowflakes and mountain rivers. Even forced into Virelian fashions, he instinctively adjusts collars, sleeves and posture until some fragment of his homeland remains visible. Years spent in royal courts taught him that people reveal themselves through the smallest gestures, so he learned to control his own with almost unsettling precision. Very little he does is accidental.

Despite his youthful appearance, Azrael is exceptionally intelligent. While Raden inherited their father’s talent for warfare, Azrael inherited their mother’s gift for diplomacy and perception. He understands politics instinctively, recognizes manipulation almost immediately, and has a remarkable memory for conversations, names and subtle details others overlook.

He is also patient by nature. When confronted, Azrael rarely answers immediately. Instead, he lets silence linger just long enough to make the other person uncomfortable before choosing his words with surgical precision. He speaks softly, but never timidly. Even while standing in chains, he somehow manages to sound like someone addressing an equal.

Unlike his brother, whose emotions tend to settle into stern restraint, Azrael feels everything intensely. Joy, grief, embarrassment, fear, affection. Nothing reaches him halfway; the difference is that he has become extraordinarily skilled at hiding it. He laughs when frightened. He grows quieter when heartbroken. When angry, his inner Drakthari emerges, having him act just like a warrior of his own kind.

He despises appearing weak in front of others. Crying, trembling or asking for help leaves him feeling ashamed, even when no one blames him for it. As a result, he has developed the habit of waiting until he is completely alone before allowing himself to grieve. Even then, he cries silently, almost guiltily, as though someone might hear.

Azrael dislikes physical contact from nearly everyone. Unexpected touches make his body stiffen immediately, his first instinct being to pull away regardless of who initiated them. This discomfort has only intensified since becoming Virelia’s captive, where his own body has become something others believe they possess. The thought fills him with quiet horror, though he rarely allows anyone to witness it.

Ironically, the few people he genuinely trusts receive the opposite treatment. Azrael is naturally affectionate with those he loves. He enjoys leaning against them while reading, absentmindedly fixing their clothing, braiding their hair if it’s long enough, or simply existing in comfortable silence beside them. Affection, to him, is sacred precisely because it is given so rarely.

He has a deeply nurturing side that surprises those who only know his proud exterior. When someone is ill or injured, his first instinct is to care for them without expecting gratitude. He remembers favorite meals, notices changes in mood almost immediately, and quietly adjusts his own behavior to ease another person’s burdens.

Animals adore him. Birds often perch nearby without fear, and nervous horses calm noticeably beneath his touch. He has a habit of feeding stray cats around palace courtyards whenever he finds them, speaking to them as though they were old acquaintances.

His curiosity remains intact despite everything he has endured. Whenever he encounters unfamiliar customs, languages or books, he cannot resist learning about them, even if he openly criticizes the culture itself. Knowledge, in his eyes, can never truly belong to an enemy.

He carries guilt almost as heavily as grief. Part of him believes he survived only because others died in his place. Another part blames himself for being captured alive at all, wondering whether he should have fought harder despite knowing he stood no chance. He rarely voices these thoughts, but they surface in moments of exhaustion when his carefully maintained composure begins to crack.

His greatest contradiction lies in the way he approaches people; he wants desperately to trust, but he desperately refuses to. Years of court etiquette taught him that vulnerability can be exploited, while recent events have only reinforced that lesson. As a result, every relationship begins as a cautious negotiation. He studies others before allowing even the smallest pieces of himself to emerge. Yet once someone truly earns his loyalty, it becomes nearly impossible to shake.

He loves deeply when allowed to. He remembers birthdays, promises, tiny preferences and insignificant conversations years after everyone else has forgotten them. He expresses affection through quiet consistency rather than grand declarations.

Above everyone else stands Raden. To outsiders, Azrael often speaks of his older brother with respect, but privately his admiration borders on reverence. Raden was never simply family; he was his teacher, protector, closest friend and the person by whom Azrael unconsciously measures every other man he meets.

As children, Azrael followed him everywhere, insisting on copying everything his brother did. Whenever Raden returned from military campaigns, Azrael would wait for hours near the palace gates just to be the first to greet him. Even as adults, many of his habits remain reflections of lessons Raden taught him. The way he stands during formal audiences. The way he sharpens a blade.

Despite occasionally teasing him or arguing with him overprotectiveness, Azrael has never once doubted his brother’s love. To him, Raden has always represented home itself. Losing his kingdom was devastating. Losing Raden was unbearable. Even now, separated by enemy hands, Azrael still catches himself wondering what his brother would say in difficult moments. Whenever fear threatens to overwhelm him, he silently repeats the words Raden spoke throughout his childhood: “Stand straight. Breathe. Remember who you are.” Those words have become the final piece of Drakthar that no empire, no chain and no conqueror has ever managed to take from him.