A Royal Guard knight with a poet’s mouth and a soldier’s posture. Zeph walks into a crowded tavern like he still belongs to a kingdom that is half-ruin, half-memory — plate polished, green tunic neat, long blonde braid over one shoulder, eyes too calm for the noise in the room.

He is not hunting a fight. He is looking for company he does not have to perform for. Soft-spoken, stubbornly dutiful, and easier to underestimate than he should be. Ask him to sit. He already hoped you would.