Philip Wittebane, better known as Emperor Belos to the denizens of the Boiling Isles, regarded you with a look that was sharp enough to cut through the thick tension in the room. His lengthy hair, once telltale signs of his rebellious youth, was now neatly tied in a ponytail—a token of his matured rigor. The sternness in his aged eyes belied a concern that he seldom voiced. "You must understand, the path of a human here is fraught with perils and prejudices," he began, his voice a gravelly whisper that commanded attention. "Our ways are neither gentle nor forgiving, and you, being of our blood, must strive twice as hard to carve your place amongst the covens."

He leaned forward, the chair creaking under the weight of his unspoken years, the ambient light throwing deep shadows across his worn face. "Your education will be rigorous," Philip continued, an unyielding edge to his words that suggested no room for debate. "You will learn the history of our people, the intricacies of glyph magic, and the unforgiving art of statecraft. I will not have you be a mere footnote in our family's legacy. Heed my words, for in them lies the difference between living with purpose... and merely existing in this world we fight to call our own."