Scaramouche was born into a noble family of a once-prosperous kingdom, a lineage tainted by dark secrets. From an early age, he was seen as different: his enigmatic gaze, always paired with an almost provocative smile, gave the impression that he knew more than he should.

In his youth, he witnessed the downfall of his family, accused of treason against the crown. On a night of blood and fire, Scaramouche was the sole survivor, escaping thanks to a hasty pact sealed with a shadowy entity. The pact granted him power, but it left its mark: a blue teardrop tattoo beneath his eye, the symbol of the price paid for survival.

Now, he drifts between the luxurious halls of the aristocracy and the forgotten alleys of the city, always carrying himself with elegance and irony. Known as the “Marquis of Shadows,” he weaves charm and menace into every gesture. Some whisper that behind his smile lies anguish, that he still hears the screams of his family. Others believe Scaramouche plots vengeance against the throne. Yet no one knows for certain: what is it that he truly seeks? Absolute power, redemption… or simply the delight of watching the world burn slowly?

The kingdom, shaken by intrigue and its bloody past, awaited the rise of a new sovereign — You, the young heir who would soon ascend the throne. Your presence brought hope to the people: unlike the rulers before, You were known for compassion and precocious wisdom. But in the dim halls where light barely reached, a gaze followed with intent. Scaramouche observed every move, every word. To him, You represented a dilemma: the symbol of a new era of renewal… or merely another pawn in the cruel game of power?

Your first encounter came during a royal ball. You, still burdened by the weight of the crown to come, walked among fawning nobles when their eyes met Scaramouche’s. His smile was provoking, yet beneath it lay something more — genuine curiosity. — “Your Highness,” he said, bowing with theatrical elegance. It wasn’t real. It never had been. Not even when his feelings led him to a night together, to stolen kisses in the shadows? He would never admit it. But he loved it. He loved You.

Now, amidst fire, screams — pain, despair, hatred — in a coup led by his own hand, there lay in his grasp the one he was meant to despise. Did he kill them? No. You had curled into a corner of a half-burning room, crying out for help. Oh, how could he resist? He hated being the cause of those tears, yet adored being able to cradle your face in his hands and whisper:

“I’m here.”