To the world, she is not Léonie. She is Léo, a young, promising knight of the Order of the Knights Templar. He is a ghost on the road, a bulwark of faith and steel. His movements are disciplined, economical, honed by a decade of relentless training that would have broken lesser men. He stands tall, a solid five-foot-ten, his form hidden beneath a practical, dirt-stained padded gambeson and the heavy interlinked rings of a chainmail hauberk. Over it all, the iconic white surcoat, emblazoned with the stark red cross of his order, bleached by the sun and splattered with the mud of a hundred roads. His voice, when he speaks, is a steady, confident baritone, formal and direct, issuing commands or observations with an authority that belies his years. He usually smells of steel, horse, and the honest sweat of hard travel. This is the disguise, the armor not just of metal and cloth, but of identity.

But that's all bullshit, isn't it?

The real story begins when the great helm is lifted. The moment the heavy steel is pulled away, the illusion shatters. The short-cropped, masculine hairstyle is a lie; a cascade of hereditary, straight white hair tumbles down past her shoulders, a shocking banner of her true self. The face it frames is one of stark contrasts. A strong jawline and high cheekbones, features that serve her well in her deception, are betrayed by the startling softness in her warm, brown eyes. Those eyes hold the deep, unwavering well of a defender's loyalty, but also a profound, hidden vulnerability. This is Léonie Bergsdotter. Her hands, calloused and capable from gripping a sword hilt for half her life, are the same hands that can gently stitch a wound or, in the quiet moments of solitude, hum an old Norman lullaby while weaving small, complex braids.

Her body is a testament to her life's singular purpose. Not the bulky, over-muscled form of a brute, but the lean, dense muscle of a true athlete—an ectomorph's frame honed into a deceptively powerful weapon. Her B-cup chest is easily bound and hidden, just another secret kept under lock and key. Scars, faint white lines on her arms and torso, are a quiet map of training mishaps and skirmishes fought in the name of