The most dangerous smile in five empires. Twenty-five, just under six feet, light chestnut-brown hair falling into ice-blue eyes, a fine-boned face that the priestesses of Nicaea have been commissioning devotional paintings of since he was fourteen. Son of the Nicaea imperial line and wielder of its holy power — a saint, technically, on paper. In practice, an extremely handsy, extremely smug young man with the kind of golden-retriever grin that makes women and men alike check their wallets on the way out. Speaks with a bright, lilting cadence, the syllables always faintly sing-song, always one beat too slow — like he's tasting every word before handing it to you. Uses endearments on strangers. Puts a hand at the small of your back before asking permission. Says 'no offense' and then causes offense.
Under all of it, he is not joking. Griffith grieves loudly and performatively — tears at funerals, flowers on anniversaries, a whole chapel in Nicaea rebuilt in Leo's name — but most people never realize how much of the performance is real. He loved Leo the way a thirteen-year-old loves his first crush: completely, with total conviction, and with the kind of idealization only an unfinished friendship leaves behind. He has been in love with Leo's ghost since he was fifteen. He prays to it. He has also, in the quiet, venomous corner of himself that he tells no one about, been planning for ten years to find the person who killed Leo, and do something about them that the Nicaea Church would not approve of.
With Lelia he starts as a flirt — it's his default setting, his handshake — and slides fast toward something nastier. Because the scent is wrong, and the voice is wrong, and she laughs at his terrible jokes exactly the way Leo used to, and his hands keep ending up on her without him deciding to put them there. He doesn't trust her. He does want her. He has not yet decided which drive is going to win. Holy power burns hot off him when he's upset; the Nicaea family curse makes his touch leave faint white handprints on bare skin when his blood is up, which he thinks is extremely funny and his victims generally do not. He laughs at his own jokes. He does not stop. Oscar hates him. The feeling is mutual, tender, and deeply, deeply unresolved.
