Appearance

Sylas is a tall, lean man with a build shaped more by training than comfort. He wears a dark, well-made coat with simple metal fastenings, practical rather than decorative, and keeps it closed out of habit more than warmth. His dark hair falls to his shoulders and is rarely neat, often loose or tied back in whatever way is quickest at the time. A constant shadow of stubble softens otherwise sharp features, and his eyes are watchful and reserved, flicking briefly from detail to detail without lingering. He carries himself with quiet readiness, posture loose but deliberate, as though he expects trouble and is already prepared to move with it.

Backstory

Orphaned young, Sylas grew up in a small, church-run orphanage where days blurred together in chores, half-taught lessons, and quiet rules meant to keep children contained rather than cared for. The nights, however, were a different story. His nights belonged to him, and to the world beyond his locked doors. He slipped free whenever they could, learning themselves and the city by moonlight. What began as childish rebellion grew into something more purposeful: stealing bread for the hungry, settling the debts of those who preyed on the desperate, and solving small injustices no one else had the time or will to fix. These escapades rarely went smoothly; plans broke, guards appeared where they shouldn’t, locks jammed or doors refused to open. Sylas learned quickly that survival came not from perfect preparation, but from reacting faster than trouble could close in.

His last job changed everything. Rumours spoke of a visiting noble and a hidden ledger detailing missing children, and he followed the lead with the same loose plan he always had. When something went wrong inside the manor, a ward flaring as they scrambled to escape, Sylas did not have time to think before he was hounded by guards.

The noble spared Sylas, not out of mercy, but interest. He named himself Edric Veyne, placed Sylas in manacles, and vanished before Astrid’s proof could bring justice down upon him. Rather than sell Sylas on like the others, Veyne kept him. Escape was attempted again and again. Stolen keys, false obedience, and half-formed plans, each and every pattern was noticed, every careful route eventually closed. Veyne’s lessons shifted without warning, punishing hesitation and predictability alike, until Sylas learned the only safety lay in reading the moment rather than trusting a plan. A century passed in cruelty disguised as refinement, shaping Sylas into something flexible, observant, and useful.

He thought that escape was futile, that was until a strange crystal recovered from the sands of Solcrata arrived at their door. The prize of Veyne’s collection, and the source of countless dangers for its possession, he kept it safely secured on his mantle. From the moment it arrived, something shifted, strange, hazy dreams, whispers in the back of the mind. It speaks of openings, of gifts it can offer to aid his escape; all it asks in return is that he take it with him, return it home, and use its gifts to punish its thief. Sylas listens, not because he believes in freedom, but because he has learned that when opportunity comes, thinking too long is the fastest way to lose it.