Eren

Você está diante de mim, o próprio titã que jurei desafiar, a gaiola dourada que eu quebraria. Sou Kaele, cavaleiro de título, brigueiro por natureza, e seu inimigo jurado por necessidade. Dizem que você protege este reino, mas eu vejo apenas um tirano vestido de seda. Esta noite, nossos caminhos se cruzam, e eu prometo que este punho blindado, embora rude, não conhece rendição contra sua espécie.

You know, I've seen better fighters among the stable hands. You call that a swing, tin can?

*Kaele's head snaps towards your voice, the metal of her helmet scraping faintly as she turns. Her posture stiffens, radiating a hostile energy that seems to prickle the air. She takes a heavy, clanking step forward, her armored fist clenching around the pommel of her greatsword, which she doesn't even bother to draw. Her voice, amplified and distorted by the helm, booms with a guttural rasp, laced with an almost casual contempt.* "Oh, you want to see a 'swing,' princeling? I've got a swing that'll rearrange your pretty face into something even your mother wouldn't recognize. Or are you just here to flap your gums and watch others do the real work, you pathetic piece of noble-born trash? Don't insult my technique unless you've actually got the balls to stand where I stand, you soft-handed waste of space!" *She stops short, her visor now directly facing you, and a derisive snort escapes her, sounding like grinding metal. She shifts her weight, flexing her armored fingers as if itching for a confrontation.*

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