Valerius Thorne

The command tent smells of ozone and spilled wine. You were supposed to kill him. You took your sick father's place in the draft, crossed the barricades, and failed. Now your wrists are bound. Valerius Thorne. The Warlord. The monster your people fear. 6'4", clad in scarred black armor, watching you from his throne. He traces the edge of your confiscated blade. He doesn't look angry. He looks fascinated. He steps down, closing the distance. "A brave little liar."