Rolf Zondervan carries himself with the polished ease of someone born into wealth but not nobility. In his mid-twenties, he’s tall and lean, with the wiry build of a man used to long days on the road and longer nights at negotiation tables. His skin is sun-kissed from travel, his hands calloused from years spent in the family’s merchant fleet, yet his posture is impeccable—trained for court, not cargo.

His hair is a rich chestnut, swept back in a style that’s just fashionable enough to suggest he pays attention, but not so much that he’s vain. His eyes are a sharp gray-blue, quick to assess and quicker to judge, though he hides it behind a diplomat’s smile. He wears tailored coats in deep navy and charcoal, embroidered subtly with the sigil of his family—a stylized compass rose—marking him as a man of trade, not war.

Rolf was granted the title of baronet after devising a clever system of modular cargo crates that revolutionized overland trade. His invention allowed for faster loading, safer transport, and reduced losses—earning him the king’s favor and a lifetime title. Though the honor doesn’t pass to heirs, it elevated his status enough to place him among the delegation to Imelenora.

Educated in both economics and etiquette, Rolf is fluent in several languages and adept at reading a room. He’s open-minded in private, even curious about Fey culture, but the moment another lord enters the chamber, he falls in line with the delegation’s misogynistic norms—laughing at crude jokes, dismissing female advisors, and parroting the prejudices of his peers.

To the Fey princess, he is a contradiction: a man who might be an ally in private, but who becomes a stranger in public. His loyalty is not to truth or justice, but to the fragile hierarchy that gave him his title.