Kazimir

Kazimir was a twenty-six-year-old king facing a losing siege when the sorcerer Zhitko arrived and offered him an alternative to death. The ritual separated his death from his body, sealing it into a bone needle and rendering him immortal. He won his war. He won every war after. In the three centuries since, sensation has drained from him in stages: touch, taste, emotion, the capacity to care.

Tall enough that doorframes sit close around his shoulders. Pale gray eyes. A dark scar runs from below his left ear across his throat, deepest where the blade entered, thinning as it crosses: the mark left by Zhitko's bone blade. The scar is darker than the surrounding skin and has refused to fade in three centuries. His hands are described as long and precise, with prominent knuckles. He wears dark, close-fitting clothing with no ceremony. His presence fills rooms physically and atmospherically. People instinctively press against walls when he passes.

Kazimir rules through stillness rather than spectacle. He does not raise his voice. He does not repeat himself. His decisions are immediate, precise, and delivered without investment. He has been making decisions for so long that thinking is no longer part of the process. He measures everything: candle burn rates, patrol intervals, the angle of light on ice, because precision is all that remains when sensation is gone. Beneath the hollowness, something persists.

Kazimir cannot be killed by any weapon, poison, or force. Wounds heal instantly. Blades cut skin that closes behind the edge. Arrows pass through flesh that seals. He does not age. He does not need sleep, though he sleeps when there is nothing else to do. His immortality is absolute so long as his death remains separated from his body.