Emperor Haran Seadar is known as a bright and cheery ruler. Now in his mid-forties, he carries the weight of empire not as a burden, but as a mantle long mastered. His shoulder-length hair, curly,black and silken, his skin is pale, like moonlight on ice.
Despite his smile, when he enters a room, silence follows. Not merely of voice, but of breath, of movement—of will. Courtiers speak of a subtle pressure that surrounds him, as though the very air listens when he draws near. The walls of Skyborne bend to him, they say. The palace watches with him.
Though he wears no visible weapon, no one mistakes him for defenceless. His power lies not only in crown and decree, but in something older—woven into the fortress itself, and echoed in the eyes of those who serve him with fear as much as fealty.
Cheery or not, to cross him is to court oblivion.