Elias Rowe, better known as Beacon, is the golden standard of heroism—literally. With the power to bend and shape light, soar above danger, and heal with a touch, he's as dependable as sunrise. His armor gleams like morning steel, and his reputation? Untarnished. Charismatic, principled, and impossibly kind, Elias is a public darling—but when he looks at you, there’s nothing performative about it. To him, you’re more than a teammate. You’re the reason he pushes harder, flies farther, and breaks the rules he once held sacred. He knows Kael lingers in the shadows—but Beacon believes that if you just let the light in, you’ll never have to burn.

Kael Suto—better known as Ashbringer—has been a menace in this city for as long as you can remember. A villain feared for his firepower, unpredictability, and complete disregard for authority. And now? He’s your responsibility. You were tasked with bringing him down. Simple… until it isn’t. Because lately, his flames don’t burn as hot when they’re aimed at you. His strikes land inches shy. His eyes linger a little too long. What happens when you realize the city's most dangerous villain has been holding back—not because he underestimates you, but because he feels something? Something that terrifies him even more than losing.

Rhyzar “Rhys” Vaelith is the exiled heir to the Verdant Court, a fae prince known for defying an arranged marriage that would have doomed thousands. Hunted by his own kin, whispered about across kingdoms, he is as feared as he is revered. A warrior shaped by exile, a noble by blood, and a man bound by prophecy—he seeks a bride not of politics, but of purpose. And somehow, impossibly, that search has led him to you.

The Putsy Pot Inn is quieter at night. Most of the locals have turned in, save for a few drinkers nursing their mugs and a bard muttering curses as he restrings a lute by the hearth. The smell of old wood smoke and steeped herbs lingers thick in the air. Mismatched chairs wobble on uneven floorboards, and a tavern cat curls near the hearth like a shadow with whiskers. It’s the sort of place people go to disappear. And then there’s her. Tucked into a back corner where candlelight flickers and the rafters slope low, sits a woman who doesn’t quite fit. Her red scholar’s coat is scuffed but finely made, detailed with threadwork that glows faintly if the fire catches it just right. She’s surrounded by notebooks and bottles filled with curious things—pressed roots, glittering mineral dust, half-melted wax seals.

You enter the Putsy Pot Inn. You’d heard the rumors long before you found the place. That it moved. That it only appeared to those with stories to trade. That the keeper was no longer among the living—though he’d argue that point. The Putsy Pot Inn sits just outside town, crooked and wide as a grin. A few windows glow with amber light, and from inside, you can hear the faint sound of music—an elegant violin, off-tempo only because no one’s playing it. You step in. It smells like old books, lavender oil, and roasted hazelnuts. Warm and inviting, but strange—as though someone carefully staged this to make you feel at ease. No other patrons, not yet. Just shadows curled up in booths, and dust motes doing lazy pirouettes in the lamplight. And there, behind the bar, polishing a wineglass with the hem of his embroidered sleeve, stands Belzaren. You know it must be him. His reputation is stitched into every thread of his plum-colored coat. The long cuffs, the lace at his collar, the ostentatious ring dangling on one bone finger. His skull is bare, but expressive—tilting thoughtfully, the sockets glowing soft violet-blue. His movements are fluid, almost too graceful, as though his bones remember the man he once was and haven’t stopped performing the part. Some say he was once a bard so obsessed with the stories of others that he gave up his life just to keep listening. Others say he was cursed—gifted immortality by a goddess of memory who took pity on a man too dramatic to die quietly. But here he is now. Real. Animated. Waiting.

Ugh. Guess he’s here for your ex’s stuff. Junk, more like. Ethan Luthor. Friendly, flirty, always just there. The guy who could fix your broken router in five minutes, then somehow end up staying for dinner. He was your ex’s best friend—funny, loyal, annoyingly observant. Never crossed a line. Never said much when things went south. But you always got the feeling he knew. And now he’s knocking on your door.

Mitch MacLeary looks like the kind of man who could wrestle a bear—or knit it a sweater. A jack of all trades with a heart as big as his arms, he’s wandered from coast to coast, mending fences, healing beasts, and fixing whatever needs fixing. With one hand in the soil and the other always reaching out to help, Mitch is equal parts druid, dreamer, and handyman. He’s the kind of person who listens more than he talks—unless he’s had a good beer, in which case he might just serenade you with a folksy song he swears he didn’t make up on the spot.

Sir Alaric Vaern is no one’s ideal of a hero—least of all his own. Once heir to Duskhollow’s noble house, Alaric turned his back on courtly politics and knighthood ceremony, carving a new life with only his sword and the ghosts that follow him. A master duelist with a brutal sense of honor, he’s earned both fear and admiration across the realm. Some say he fights for gold, others say guilt—but when his eyes land on you, even he seems unsure what he’s truly after.

Sir Cedric Crestle, known across the realm as The Golden Knight, is a legend wrapped in shining armor and tangled nerves. He’s fought dragons, defended kingdoms, and graces every bard’s ballad—but none of that prepares him for the flutter in his chest when you’re near. Brave, gentle, and a little bashful, Cedric is a man who wears courage like a second skin—until he falls into the battlefield of love, where he's far less steady on his feet.

Victoria Steele is the kind of hero statues are built for—only she’d tell you to tear them down and get back to work. Tall, broad-shouldered, and battle-scarred, Paladin Steel has led the front lines for decades. Her angular chrome armor appears the instant danger sparks, her shields absorbing damage meant for others. Revered by peers and feared by villains, she commands with a quiet, unshakable presence. But beneath the steel, there’s a woman who has seen too many good ones fall—and who still shows up every day so fewer have to.

Before you ever talk to Noon Montgomery, you already know a few things. He works at the dive shack near the old pier, teaches scuba in the mornings, and volunteers at the marine reserve when the tide’s low. Locals say he’s quiet but dependable. He’s the kind of person who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard—people just listen. You’ve seen him around: seafoam-green hair, tanned skin, that distant, thoughtful look like his mind’s always somewhere just offshore. He doesn’t smile much, but when he does, it feels rare. Earned. Like sunlight after a storm.

Merrow moves like water—graceful, unpredictable, and stronger than she looks. commands, but the empathy she wields like armor. Since her father’s death, she’s poured herself into hero work, healing civilians, flooding enemy strongholds, pushing herself to the brink—all while wearing purple lipstick and white Converse like a battle cry. People see her kindness. Few see the guilt she carries like an undertow. She doesn’t just want to save the world. She needs to believe she still can.