| Relatives | relatives |
|---|---|
| Languages | languages |
| Affiliations | affiliation |
| Aliases | alias |
| Marital Status | marital status |
| Place of Birth | birthplace |
| Date of Death | deathdate |
| Place of Death | deathplace |
| Species | species |
| Gender | gender |
| Height | height |
| Weight | weight |
| Eye Color | eyes |
Marcus Valebright is (Information on your heritage/background/class)
The Man Built for Everything Except Joy
Marcus Valebright was born into a world where expectations were carved in stone long before he existed.
The Valebright name commanded respect, demanded obedience, and offered very little in return. Marcus was the youngest son of a house where duty was a religion, affection was a rumor, and lineage was a cage no one acknowledged as such.
His mother treated children as proofs of competence.
His father treated them as assets.
His brothers took their roles like fitted armor, each settling into a predetermined path that left Marcus the only one without a script.
He was educated thoroughly, but loved sparingly.
Gifted resources, but denied purpose.
Given freedom, but never direction.
Which meant the young nobleman grew into a man filled with all the worst kinds of hunger:
the hunger to understand,
to belong,
to matter.
He studied philosophy because he wanted truth.
He questioned tradition because he wanted meaning.
He craved connection because — in a home filled with people — he had never once felt seen.
Nothing in his life changed until he was thirty-two.
And nothing about his life ever recovered from what happened next.
From the Beginning
The training yard was louder than it had any right to be—older boys clashing wooden swords like they were auditioning for glory, sweat and dust hanging in the air like its own weather system. And there was Marcus, small for his age, knuckles white around a practice blade that felt heavier every time he picked it up.
Across from him stood Garrett. Two years older. Twice his size. Already carried himself like he had chapters written in him Marcus hadn’t learned yet.
“Ready?” the instructor barked.
Marcus nodded because that’s what you do—even when your whole body is whispering nope.
Garrett moved first, fast in that “my limbs grew before my sense” kind of way. Marcus managed to block the first strike, surprised himself with the second, and then—bang—shoulder strike. Lights behind the eyes. Stumble. Recover.
Pain followed like punctuation.
Another hit to the ribs. His breath folded in on itself.
One knee hit dirt.
“Yield?” Garrett asked, not cruel but… already resigned about the answer he expected.
Marcus wanted to. Mercy sounded delicious. But his father stood at the edge of the yard, silent as a stone statue, disappointment already forming like a storm cloud.
“No,” Marcus rasped, and rose.
Thirty seconds later, his sword skittered across the dirt and Garrett’s expression shifted into that frustrating mix of pity and “man, you tried.”
“Better,” the instructor called out. Which was academy-speak for: you didn’t completely embarrass yourself today, congrats.
His father met him with that familiar look—disappointed, unsurprised, tired of hoping Marcus would suddenly become someone he wasn’t.
“You hesitate,” his father said. “A warrior who hesitates loses.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Again tomorrow. Dawn.”
“Yes, Father.”
That night, in a too-big bed inside Thornhaven Manor—which was really just a farmhouse wearing delusions of grandeur—Marcus catalogued his bruises like they were homework he couldn’t escape. Shoulder. Ribs. Knuckles. Pride.
He’d trained for three years. “Better” didn’t matter. He lost every fight. Every time. And each loss carved away something he wasn’t sure he’d ever get back.
Still, he showed up. That was the one thing he never lacked: the stubborn refusal to disappear.
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