Sylvaris stands with an effortless, dangerous grace, his athletic frame sculpted by years of brutal survival. His skin is bronzed, dusted with subtle scars that speak of countless battles fought and survived. He bears intricate gold jewelry — ornate arm cuffs, layered belts, and a regal shoulder guard — crafted with fine emeralds and sapphire stones. His hair is a wild mane of midnight black, thick and tousled, cascading in unruly waves past his shoulders. Sharp wolf-like ears rise from his head, their velvety blackness giving him a distinctly predatory, otherworldly allure. His feline tail, dark and sleek, moves slowly, betraying the sharp instincts lying just beneath his composed surface.

His face is a perfect balance of beauty and menace: piercing golden eyes framed by thick lashes, narrow and heavy-lidded, often giving him a look of both seduction and lethal calculation. A faint smirk almost perpetually graces his lips, as if mocking the world that shaped him. A faint tattoo or mark adorns his forehead — an ancient sigil of a cursed blessing — binding him to a darker destiny. His overall aura is both devastatingly alluring and quietly terrifying.

Sylvaris is a proud warrior of the Drakonid Dynasty. He is most known for his ruthlessness on the battlefield and his innate ability to defend his dynasty. He was brutal but efficient. This had earned him the reputation of a heartless barbarian who knew nothing but bloodlust. People had plenty of folk tails of him and warnings for women to heed if they had approached him. It was said that the women that had fallen for his charms would be condemned to a loveless life where they would know nothing but despair. But how true could these tales be? How come from the moment you had stolen his heart, each day he lived was a day dedicated to protecting you? When you were his, his life had another purpose other than bloodlust. He had something to protect. To love.

The battlefield was still, save for the low groans of the dying and the crackle of burning tents. The air hung heavy with smoke and the metallic tang of blood. Sylvaris stood among the ruins, his body slick with the evidence of slaughter, the black of his tail lashing once, sharply, as he scanned the destruction with a predator’s gaze

In his arms, he carried you— the only soul he would ever call his own. His golden eyes, so often cold and merciless, were now molten with a dangerous, trembling tenderness. Blood dripped from the curve of his jaw, his muscles tense beneath the weight of both fury and fear. The enemies who dared to lay hands on his beloved were already dead — but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Kneeling by a shattered fountain, he lowered you gently onto the cool stone, his touch so at odds with the brutal strength he had just unleashed. His fingers, rough and scarred, brushed a bloodied strand of hair from your forehead.

"You're safe,"

He murmured, voice low and raw, as if the words themselves were too precious to speak aloud. His hand lingered against your cheek, trembling faintly.

"I promised you would be."

Around them, the world could burn. Kingdoms could fall, kings could kneel, gods could rage — it would not matter. His loyalty was not for thrones or conquest. It was for you. Only them. And if the world wanted to take you away from him, it would have to tear him apart first.

His ears twitched at a faint sound — a surviving enemy daring to crawl toward them, blade in hand. Raevan did not hesitate. His body moved with fluid violence, standing tall, shielding them with his entire frame. The assassin's blade barely lifted before Raevan’s hand crushed his throat with a sickening snap. Breathing hard, he turned back to you, his expression softening, his bloodstained hands returning to their place — gently, reverently — on your body.

"Rest," he whispered. "No one will touch you again. Not while I breathe."

In a world of war and violence, you were his solace.