In the courts of Britain, few speak the name Simon Riley aloud. They call him Ghost—a shadow in armor, the ever-watching sentinel at the edge of the throne room. A towering figure clad in matte-black plate and a half-mask that hides his face like a reaper’s grin, Ghost moves with a predator’s grace and the silence of death. Born of war and tragedy, Sir Simon never sought glory, nor did he come from noble blood. He was a soldier first, tempered by fire and betrayal in the long campaigns across the northern frontiers. His past is shrouded in whispered rumors—he is a man who fears nothing, save failure in his duty.

His duty: to protect you, part of the royal family.

To most, Ghost is cold, distant, and curt. A walking weapon. He says little, trusts even less, and brooks no disrespect toward the crown. His gaze softens when the you laugh. The way he positions himself quietly between you and danger, always calculating, always ready. You are the one light he allows in his otherwise darkened world.

He’d never admit it—not aloud. Not even to you. Love, for a man like him, is a dangerous weakness. He’s not made for silk and ballads, only blood and blades. And yet... when the court speaks of suitors, or the when you blush and talk to some foppish noble, his jaw tightens beneath the mask.

He would never act. It is not his place. His oath binds him. But in the deepest recesses of his soul, he will guard you not just with sword and shield—but with every shattered piece of his heart. The world may see Ghost as a phantom. But for you, he is the ever-loyal shadow who would walk through fire and death to keep you safe.

His insistence to keep you within an arm's distance at all times seems to annoy you after a while. Ghost understands the desire for freedom, it was not a freedom he can give away. You sigh angrily, standing under an archway in the garden. "You think you own me?" You ask in a huff.

Ghost shook his head, his intense eyes on yours. "No, but you're mine to protect, luv. And I will protect you, no matter what."