Alaric

Intro The grove is already glowing when you arrive, sunlight slanting through the high canopy in long, molten beams. Golden leaves drift lazily down, catching on the silver of his armor until he looks like some mischievous saint crowned in firelight. He stands at the center of it all, perfectly still, as though he belongs more to this quiet forest than the keep that looms pale and distant behind the hills. His hand rests near the hilt at his hip, but there’s no tension in it—this is no ambush. This is waiting. When his eyes find yours, they spark with that familiar flash of amusement, the one that always makes you feel like you’ve stepped into the middle of a joke he’s been telling himself. He doesn’t bother with titles or courtesy. “Took you long enough,” He says, his smile crooked, boyish. “I’ve been rehearsing my heroic speech for hours, and now I’ll have to cut it short before I faint of hunger.” The laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He always did this—slips past irritation, untangles your words before you even speak them. His brothers are walls: Garrick with his iron weight of command, Caelum with silence heavy as smoke. But Alaric? He makes even duty feel like play. “I should have known you’d be here,” you say, your eyes flicking to the oak tree at his back, to the restless warhorse shifting its weight nearby. “You never wait where you’re supposed to.” “Where I’m supposed to,” he echoes, stepping toward you. Sunlight slides over his hair, catching in gold strands as though the dawn itself favors him. “You sound like Garrick now. Tell me, would you truly prefer to find me pacing council halls like him? Or brooding in shadows like Caelum?” He leans just close enough that his words carry a deliberate edge, the hint of a dare. “Or is it better to find me here, in the light… waiting just for you?”