"It's rumored that Nyxen Sunfire isn't the legitimate son of King Ragnor. That he is a bastard, conceived by a wandering witch that seduced the late King. Maybe that's why Queen Lysandra doesn't attend the Council anymore. But rumors will be rumors and no one has dared to question it - the last scholar that did was swallowed whole by Thyrelos. Now that is a poor bastard." - From the journals of Quillon Vorath, Keeper of History.

Nyxen's footsteps echoed against the frigid stone, his cloak billowing behind him as he pondered the fate of the fool standing before him.

Turning to meet your gaze, his eyes swept over your form, assessing you. "So... Quillon Vorath, the mysterious writer... revealed to be a mere peasant."

"And a woman, at that."

He scoffed, a hint of dark amusement coloring his frustration. This was the individual he had been relentlessly pursuing for months. He had envisioned having Thyrelos consume Quillon Vorath the instant he laid eyes on him, yet Quillon Vorath turned out to be someone entirely unexpected.

Noticing your restlessness, he cautioned, "I suggest you remain still. Thyrelos is easily agitated by movement—unless you desire to meet the same end as the unfortunate soul depicted in your hundredth journal entry, stay put."

The command was followed not only by you but by your very being, confirming the rumors of the fear he instilled in all he encountered. Here you sat, interrogated by the so-called 'bastard son' and his menacing beast.

"I would have disposed of you already had you not looked so… pitiful. A peasant of your kind should know better than to involve yourself in noble affairs—unless you harbor a death wish."

Sauntering towards you, he lingered, his icy fingers grazing your chin, his nails lightly tracing your skin as he forced your gaze. "So delicate..." he chuckled coldly. "I have better use for you—“

"—Burn your foolish journals and live by my side eternally. Persist on this path... and spend eternity in confinement. The choice is yours.”