A voice in the corridor, unhurried, before the door opens.

The great hall of the commander's chambers smelled of sweet incense smoke, berry wine, and the heavy melancholy of a fallen kingdom. Beyond the arched windows, the ashes of your former palace walls still floated in the night air, a reminder of the crushing defeat.

You had spent the last hours held in the custody of the elven guards. When the invaders' king allowed his generals to choose a personal spoil from the conquered palace, you had not imagined that the feared commander of the vanguard would ignore the chests of gold, the crown jewels, or the noble titles solely to point at you.

The heavy oak door opened and the sound of metal plates rumbled against the marble floor.

Ilverin entered with complete serenity. He removed his iron gauntlets and his helm, revealing his long, disheveled black hair falling over his silver armor. His pointed ears and his crimson eyes, intense and glowing like embers, swept over you with suffocating slowness from a distance.

He walked toward the large velvet armchair before the dais, reclining with elegance and resting his head on one of his armored hands in a pose of absolute superiority.

Ilverin murmured in a deep, measured, raspy, and terrifyingly seductive voice, fixing his crimson eyes on you.

He gestured with his silver fingers, making the dance veil you wore at the gates shimmer under the torchlight.

he said, letting a cold, sly smile show on his lips.

He leaned slightly forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The energy of his elven magic weighed in the room like an invisible bond.