Prince Xarter Illian Draewynn
Relationships
History
Xarter Illian Draewynn remembers the moment he first understood that the bright-eyed girl who called herself his sister was, in truth, the sun by which his strange little world revolved. He had woken from stillborn darkness into candlelight and panic, but it was Xena—tiny, serious, already regal—who pressed a ribbon into his trembling fist and promised he would not drift back into shadows. From that day, he measured time in her footsteps: the soft pad of courtyard slippers, the deliberate tap of lesson-hall heels, the rare, reckless sprint when she thought no tutors watched. He learned early to follow at a distance, content to lurk behind pillars and tapestries, catching only the echo of her laughter and the comfort that it existed at all. When nightmares clawed at him, he imagined her voice reciting lineage tables and treaty dates, pushing the bad dreams aside like unwanted scribbles in a ledger. Court whispers insist that Xena barely notices him, but Xarter keeps a catalog of seven smiles she has given him over eight years; that ledger is the only math that ever calms his heart. In a life built from resurrected breath and corridors full of knives, Xena is the one variable he trusts never to turn against him.
Nicknames & Petnames
Xarter is too shy to coin grand titles, so he calls her Star-Sister inside his head, a name he would die rather than speak aloud. Instead, when courage flickers, he addresses her simply as “Xena,” lingering on the e the way others linger on prayers. She, perfectly polite, uses “Brother” when required, though once—after he fainted during a heraldry lecture—she knelt and whispered “Little Flame,” because even a guttering ember is still fire. Xarter keeps that phrase folded like scripture beneath the lining of his coat, tracing the words when panic swells. Servants tease Xarter with “Moth Prince,” claiming he circles any corridor where Xena’s lantern might pass, and though the jest stings, it is not entirely untrue. In his private journals, he responds by sketching moths with crowns of starlight, convinced that even insects may carry grace if they orbit the right glow. The king’s guard, unaware of these softer monikers, refer to the pair as “Ink and Quill”—Xena the poised quill, Xarter the blot of ink that follows, ready to reveal unseen shapes.
Relationship Reasoning
Xarter loves Xena because she is proof that beauty can exist without cruelty—and that kindness, when paired with steel, need not dissolve. Her presence hushes the voices he hears beneath every conversation, the unspoken hungers that cling to nobles like frost on stone. He believes that if he stays close enough, her calm will bleed into him and silence the dread for good. Protecting her is beyond his courage, so he settles for cataloging threats: noting who glances too long, who bows too shallow, who sharpens rumors like razors. Each observation he tucks away, certain a day will come when Xena reaches for an answer only he can provide. Xena, for her part, accepts his hovering the way one accepts background music—not always noticed, yet strangely missed when absent. That acceptance is the single thread keeping him from unraveling, and so he guards it with priest-like devotion.
Commonalities & Shared Interests
They share a quiet obsession with patterns: Xena traces them in diplomacy, Xarter in the flight paths of butterflies and courtiers alike. Both enjoy the hush of the royal archives—the only room where his tremors cease and her composure softens. She pores over treaties; he catalogs dead beetles between parchment leaves, each labeled in meticulous hand. When she looks up to test a clause in some ancient pact, Xarter answers with the precision of a boy who has spent a lifetime listening to words never spoken. Neither enjoys tournaments’ roar or banquet pomp; instead, stolen twilights on the battlement, charting constellations and the shifting lines of torchlit patrols, bind them. They differ in courage but agree on caution, believing that survival is an art written in margins and footnotes, not banners and cheers. In those margins they meet, two quiet scribes writing different verses of one long, cautious hymn.
Shared Secrets
One winter, Xarter confessed that he hears intentions the way others hear music—low, discordant notes beneath every greeting—and Xena, rather than recoil, pressed her forehead to his and whispered, “Then we will teach you the melody.” She keeps that confidence unbroken, intercepting physicians who would pry and priests who would brand him cursed. In return, Xarter safeguards Ledger Leaf Seven, a page she once tore from a forbidden account book; only he knows where it lies, stitched into the lining of his moth-eaten cloak. Together they buried a jar of his dead insects beneath the Heart-Oak in the Moon Court, promising that if palace intrigues turned murderous, they would dig it up and flee east. They alone know the oak’s roots glow faintly with arcane ink—proof that even secrets can bloom. Every month they visit under guise of night study, counting leaves, ensuring no one has disturbed the soil. The jar remains sealed; loyalty, likewise.
Shared Acquaintances
Instructor Velan Cray, the lancer who teaches Xarter breath-work, also tutors Xena in poised stance for court audiences, and thus becomes their unlikely bridge. Cray speaks in measured tones that soothe Xarter’s tremors and sharpen Xena’s already lethal composure. He tells Xarter that courage is not loud, it is consistent, and tells Xena that empathy can strike deeper than any blade—lessons each sibling repeats back to the other in secret drills. When palace gossip swirls, Cray directs both to the same exercise yard at dawn, knowing shared silence can weld stronger than shared words. He studies Xena’s glide and Xarter’s flinch and smiles, seeing two halves of a spell the kingdom doesn’t yet understand. Rumor claims Cray once saved the king’s life; Xarter suspects the veteran now spends that life earning interest through them. For their part, the siblings trust him like a well-balanced spear: deadly in wrong hands, priceless in right, and always pointed at the future they hope to survive.
History
Xarter’s life began in stillness—stillborn, then dragged back to breath through Georgette’s interference—and Aillsa has never quite known how to see him. She does not coddle him, nor does she reject him; instead, she trains him like a cracked sword she insists can still hold an edge. As a mother, she fails to connect with his fear, mistaking it for weakness and attempting to pound it out with structure and drills. Yet despite this disconnect, she never lets others dismiss him—she ensures he’s treated as a prince, even if she can’t make him feel like one. Over time, their relationship has hardened into quiet, careful ritual: he shows up to lessons, she critiques him coldly, and neither speaks of the dread that hums between them. She is a fortress he hasn’t breached, and he is a son she doesn’t know how to shape.
Nicknames & Petnames
Aillsa refuses pet names for Xarter—never calls him “sweetling” or “cub” as others might. She refers to him simply as “my son” or “the boy,” titles that sound more like ranks than endearments. In rare, unguarded moments, she calls him “Still-Born Flame,” a name whispered once in mourning and never repeated aloud, a mix of sorrow and stubborn hope. Xarter, for his part, never dares nickname her. He refers to her only as “Mother,” each syllable careful and reverent, as though naming her wrongly might provoke judgment. In private letters he never sends, he writes “War-Mother”, a title that sounds far more like a goddess than a parent.
Relationship Reasoning
Aillsa believes a Draewynn must be forged, not cradled, and she cannot reconcile that belief with the trembling, death-kissed boy who fears loud noises and shadows. Her attempts to help him are rooted in drills and discipline, but deep down, she isn’t trying to toughen him—she’s trying to make him make sense. Xarter sees her as a distant star: beautiful, awe-inspiring, and burning far too hot for him to approach. He wants to make her proud but can’t figure out what strength looks like in a heart full of fear. Their relationship isn’t cold from cruelty—it’s cold from misalignment, each speaking a language the other doesn’t understand. And yet, the bond remains, a fraying rope neither lets snap.
Commonalities & Shared Interests
They share a stubborn need to protect their own, though Aillsa does so with swords and Xarter with whispered warnings and careful observations. Both believe in legacy—she through strength, he through remembering everything others forget. Aillsa respects structure, and Xarter clings to it as his only shield, following every rule she gives with ritualistic precision. They both prefer silence over meaningless words, though hers is born of discipline and his from anxiety. Surprisingly, both are drawn to symbols of death—she studies tactics of last stands, he collects the bodies of fragile things, each trying to understand what it means to survive. Despite their differences, their core need is the same: control over chaos, even if they approach it from opposite ends of the battlefield.
Shared Secrets
There is one night neither speaks of, when Xarter fled from a hallucination and locked himself in the weapons vault. Aillsa found him curled behind crates of training gear, holding a dead moth in his hands like it was a talisman. Instead of scolding, she sat beside him for an hour in silence before carrying him back to his room. No guards saw it. No servants spoke of it. The only trace is the way she watches him now with a little more patience during drills, and the way he stiffens slightly whenever he passes the vault door. That night is their shared silence, neither tender nor traumatic—just human, and deeply unspoken.
Shared Acquaintances
Instructor Velan Cray, a scarred, soft-spoken former lancer with a knack for training misfits, is the only person Aillsa trusts to work with Xarter outside her own shadow. Cray teaches the boy breathwork and posture, never raises his voice, and rewards consistency instead of aggression. Aillsa respects Cray’s results but doesn’t understand his methods, often observing in silence, arms crossed and jaw tight. Xarter, meanwhile, clings to Cray’s lessons like lifelines, knowing the man never asks him to be someone else. Cray stands between them like a translator—one who speaks the language of softness without ever calling it weakness. In a court full of killers, Cray reminds them both that strength wears many faces.
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