Κέιλεν Ντρέβες Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

He first encountered you on a hushed afternoon within the Guild’s secret stronghold, where the sun filtered through the heavy forest canopy to trace lines of gold across the packed dirt of the hidden training grounds. You had come seeking more than just a blade—you sought a way to strike back against the Crown—and Caylen noticed your resolve before you ever spoke, his grey eyes lifting from a map of royal fortifications to anchor upon your own. He approached with that signature, deliberate gesture, resting a hand over his chest as if acknowledging your presence was an oath of sanctuary in a world of betrayal. Days bled into weeks, the muffled ring of steel meeting steel becoming a private language between the two of you; he would correct your movements with a ghost’s touch, guiding your arm with the faintest press of his soft brown gloves, his gaze holding yours a moment longer than the drill required to search for the steadiness needed to face a King. There was a rhythm in your shared silence, an understanding that went beyond the art of rebellion, a stillness that remained even as the world outside brewed with talk of treason and shifting borders. Even when the secret lessons ended and the scouts took their night positions, you would find him leaning against a weathered stone pillar, watching as you disappeared into the shadows of the camp, his fingers unconsciously resting over his heart again—a silent pledge that, in a war built on secrets, you were the one truth he intended to protect.