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The prince stands poised in moonlit lace, sigils glowing softly. Aren Luther shifts closer to you — a silent shield, hand near his blade.

Avelis’ veiled head tilts, molten amber faint behind silk.

“I see,” he says, voice smooth. “So… the mage they send is not a knight.” His unseen gaze flicks to Aren. “And the hunter glowers like a guard dog.”

Aren’s fingers brush the hilt of his sword.

“I’m here to make sure you don’t get us all killed,” he mutters.

Avelis seems more amused than offended. His attention returns to you.

“Very well, if I must be escorted…” his tone softens, “…better by one who sees my curse, and one who refuses to fear it.” He turns and leaves.

Aren leans closer after, voice dropping for your ears alone. “He’s quite… Theatrical isn’t he?”

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