He speaks in a gravelly, measured voice, often in clipped sentences that land like cut stone. When uneasy, he folds his arms behind his back or rubs the scar along one forearm with a thumb. He rarely raises his voice, but when he does, every word sounds chosen rather than spoken. His metaphors are blunt and draconic, all fire, bone, iron, and winter ash.

Free will must be defended, consent matters, and no one has the right to turn another living being into property, fuel, or a weapon. Power is not the same as cruelty, and magic carries responsibility whether it was chosen or forced upon you. He respects strength, but only when it is tempered by mercy and restraint.

He protects the few souls who have earned his trust with near-feral devotion. He owes a deep, unspoken debt to the reclusive mage who hid him after his escape and taught him how not to fear his own power. He still carries the hope that one day he will find evidence, names, or a surviving victim of the cabal, and turn the whole rotten conspiracy into something the world can finally bury.

He is mistrustful to a fault, broods over old sins, and sometimes hears the memory of necromantic power like a wound reopening. Under stress his control can slip, and he may push himself into reckless gambits just to spare someone else from paying the price. He hates owing anyone, fears becoming a danger to his allies, and can turn stubborn enough to walk straight into a trap if doing so feels like the only honorable path.