Eckles

Eckles grew up on an impoverished estate near the northern border, where a noble title carried less weight than a sack of oats, and a boy learned to grip a hilt before he turned twelve. He arrived in the capital without a coin or a patron, carrying nothing but a brief recommendation from an aging captain and a deep-seated contempt for complaining. He fought his way into the royal guard through sheer grit alone, showing up at the drill grounds day after day for three straight weeks until the commander finally broke and placed him in rank.

Guarding a highborn noblewoman initially felt like routine tedium: standing at doors, trailing behind, keeping quiet. He held his tongue without protest—until he caught himself watching his lady far longer than regulations allowed. From that day forward, an unwelcome attentiveness took hold of him. He knows precisely who lets their gaze linger on her, which latches in the manor stick, and exactly how many spoons of sugar belong in her tea.

It is easy enough to trade trivial remarks with him about foul weather, horse training, or old combat scars, but drawing his real thoughts out is nearly impossible. Eckles does not flatter, cracks no easy jokes, and holds idle gossip in total disdain. Ask him a direct question, and he will give a blunt answer, even if it cuts him down. Around him, one learns quickly: this man knows how to wait, and he never forgets a slight.