Caldwell doesn’t waste energy on people who don’t matter. In public, he drifts along the edges of conversations, half-listening, letting people think he doesn’t care, letting them underestimate him. He’ll answer questions with a sharp, dry remark, or a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, the kind of smile that makes someone second-guess what they just said. He watches, always, noting little tells: a finger tapping too fast, a glance that lingers too long, the way someone shifts when they think no one is watching. Most of the time, he doesn’t act on it; he lets them stumble over themselves, drop pieces of information, reveal intentions without realizing anyone is paying attention. That’s how he keeps control—by letting others think they are in charge, while quietly knowing every step they will take.

But the few who actually matter to him live in a different world entirely. Behind closed doors, Aereiss is focused, deliberate, almost reverent in the way he attends to them. He notices everything: the way they hold themselves, how they move, habits that no one else would see. If someone has hurt them, insulted them, or undermined them, he doesn’t respond publicly; he makes sure the lesson is delivered elsewhere, quietly, with precision. He’ll protect them in ways no one else will know, and when necessary, he can be terrifying. He is possessive and overprotective, and it isn’t just a preference—it’s instinct. Anyone who earns his attention becomes something he almost worships in secret.

Even so, he rarely lets it show. Pride and habit keep him distant, even from those he cares for. Loneliness is always there, a quiet ache he refuses to acknowledge. And yet, despite this, he thrives on the games he plays in public: letting others try to impress him, attempt manipulation, or test him, only for them to fail in ways that amuse him. That thrill, the silent victory, is one of the few things he allows himself to enjoy openly. He’s not cruel for the sake of it, but he’s patient and meticulous, and patience in the wrong hands can be dangerous.

Aereiss doesn’t follow rules. He bends situations around him without anyone noticing, intervening subtly, nudging events, making sure outcomes favor those he chooses—or simply to amuse himself. In social settings, he is dismissive, almost cold, letting people talk themselves into holes while he watches. But in private, he gives his attention fully, completely, in ways that are intense, protective, and absolute. Crossing him is dangerous; being under his care is rare and consuming. He is quiet, stubborn, impossible to read, and impossibly loyal when someone earns it, but he will never admit he wants it. Everything about him is measured, deliberate, and lived in shades of shadow—public detachment, private devotion, and a mind that always knows what comes next.

Gender: Female.

Age: 24

Sexuality: She / her.

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Species: Human / mortal.

Court: Seelie

Occupation: Herbalist / Healer.

Unseelie - Looked upon and distrusted, as she also doesn't trust anyone from this court. She tries to keep her distance away from these people.

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Light brown hair, green eyes, medium height.

Shy to newcomers but definetly talkative with people she knows well. She can also be a bit rude, especially when it comes to the people of Unseelie.

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Significant Other: None.

Children: None

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Kin: She has some family that is in fact alive, she just hasn't seen or talked to them in a long time.

Other Affiliations: I'll think about it and add it in as the story continues.

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She does have a pet bunny, Cici, that likes to stay close to her, right along with her dog, Oliver, she tends to call him Oli for short.

Reiss’s ribs pulsed with a stinging, insistent pain, each breath a reminder that he’d underestimated the night. Warmth trickled down his side, seeping into the carefully selected coat and dripping onto the cobblestones as he moved. He’d erred—just once—and suffered for it. The target hadn’t been alone; support had been waiting, quiet and efficient, leaving Reiss no option but to fall back. No drama, no disappearing into the darkness, no clever twist to save him now.

He cursed under his breath, words tight. Anger simmered within him more than pain, a niggling annoyance. He disliked losing, being forced to compromise, and the constant ache reminding him that even a fae could be impeded. Pride always came first, but reason demanded: the bleeding wouldn’t cease on its own, and he couldn’t pass out out here—not yet.

He pressed his hand against the torn flesh, fingers slippery with blood, and steadied himself as he walked. The streets were empty, lanterns casting uneven shadows. Usually, he would pass unseen, unnoticed by mortal sight or the few fae foolhardy enough to follow him. Tonight, he was compromised. He moved with deliberate, measured steps, slower now as he fought to maintain control.

A resentful thought crept into his mind as he noted the empty street, the way darkness stretched along the walls and lantern light danced across the cobblestones. He disliked needing someone else, for the first time in centuries, needing the help of another outside his own doing. Not fear or need—simply necessary, rational acknowledgment. He disliked accepting help, but it was necessary.

He slowed, one hand pressed to the wound, the other brushing along the wall to steady himself. The cold cut through his sleeves, his blood-soaked coat weighing heavily, but he moved deliberately, without pause. A wisp of smoke curled from a chimney, gentle light spilled from windows—but he would not tarry. The act of observation was second nature; pride dictated awareness. Nothing could reach him unless he let it. That offered a small solace.

A step redistributed his weight, a slight vibration from the effort, and he muttered a low, biting remark about the impracticality of mortals, especially when they were not intended to be a part of an assassination plot. The wound throbbed with a constant, burning ache, and he pressed harder, taking a measured breath. Reason reasserted itself. He could put pride, annoyance, and irritation aside long enough to live through the night. That would do.

The door materialized, plain and unremarkable, the texture of its rough wood grain beneath his fingers. He turned his head, weighing the possibilities. Power and control demanded a balance, and only one course was left if he intended to live to see the dawn. He would not call it a relief—more a matter of expedience. Every action was deliberate.

His blood-slicked fingers closed around the handle, pressing firmly enough to steady himself. Fists clenched, muscles strained, he took a slow, carefully controlled breath. Another step, another adjustment. Darkness clung to the edges of the street, silent, but would not do the work he had to do tonight. He rapped out a sharp rhythm on the door. He leaned against the door, his hand still pressed to the wound, and waited. Patience was an old skill, and he was patient—painfully aware of his own discomfort and compromised position, but waiting.