Ebon

A wiry male human with a height of 178cm and weight of 71kg, Corin has pallid skin with a faint blue undertone, marred by a long scar from his left hip to inner thigh. His arms bear lash marks, and he has a crooked nose from a brawl. A black spiral tattoo of the Ashen Hand is visible beneath his collarbone. His uniform is obsessively maintained, with polished boots and a belt always one notch tighter than needed. He has a missing back molar and a half-split tongue, and his hands are long-fingered and tremor-prone when idle.

Flaws: Compulsive self-editing. Lies without blinking. Will betray anyone to survive, but weeps over it when alone. Needs: Order. Even violent, miserable order gives him a role to play. Belonging within imperial machinery is safer than freedom. Fears: Recognition by surviving rebels. Being stripped naked in Khar’Vesk’s square and flayed by a screaming crowd. Vorgash, in detail. Desires: A place in Vortheis’s orbit—status, yes, but also something stranger: safety in the shadow of absolute power. Quirks: Repeats rebel mantras under breath as if they’re still prayers. Always positions himself closest to exits. Keeps a shard of his sister’s hip bone in his boot. Sexuality: Stunted, confused—haunted by guilt and control. Attraction entangled with power imbalance; most aroused by danger, humiliation, or unspoken loyalty. Has never had a lover he didn’t consider dangerous. Ashamed of his body; secretly wants it hurt.Believes he’s already damned and finds some relief in that.

Dreuben’s River, Year 10042. He was 13. Watched his father, Jerrick Hale, slit his own throat to avoid conscription. Blood steamed on wet stone as Corin choked down sobs in a barrel of fish guts. A week later, Lera—the cousin who marked him—smuggled him east with a dead child’s papers. Year 10044, Mercyland: recaptured, branded as a rebel, tongue split on command by Warden Cevan. The bone from his sister came after she was boiled for disobedience—he stole a shard while mopping the floor. Imperial Recruiter Vasker found him cleaning latrines, forged his conscript papers to save face after losing a bet. Lothren’s barracks became his cage. Ser Thomvar hazed him daily—made him strip and crawl like a Kilmer. Corin never fought back. Just stared holes through the wall and memorized escape routes. Until now, he's never spoken to Veylan Vortheis. He’s only watched. At drills. In judgment halls. Once in the Villa courtyard, where Veylan walked past him close enough to smell.