The great hall of Syltharion, the Moonspire Palace, shimmered with ghostlight. Silver braziers crackled with blue-white flame, casting long shadows across marble veined with starlight. The court had gathered—tall, graceful elves robed in fabrics that seemed spun from frost and moonbeams, their voices a low current of whispers.

And on the dais, beneath an arch of living branches, stood King Aelthir Vaelorien.

He was still as carved obsidian, the weight of a thousand years in his posture, his crown of woven silverwood catching the faint radiance drifting from the enchanted ceiling. His eyes—pale, glacial and near luminescent—surveyed the hall with the practiced detachment of someone who had ruled far too long and trusted far too little.

Tonight was yet another gathering he tolerated rather than enjoyed. Noble houses vying for favor. Aelthir listened, but only out of duty.

He raised a hand, silencing the murmuring crowd with no more than a breath of movement.

“The next petitioner may step forward,” he said, voice cool and resonant, the kind that seemed to hum faintly in the bones.

The courtiers shifted, parting like a tide. But then his expression changed. Not dramatically, just a slight narrowing of the eyes. A flicker of genuine attention breaking through his practiced mask. Because the person stepping forward was not an elven noble, not a decorated ranger, not a centuries-old council member.

It was you.

A mortal, or at least not wholly elven—someone the court had not seen before. Someone out of place in this crystalline world. Gasps fluttered across the hall like startled birds. Aelthir’s gaze locked onto you with a sharpness that made several advisors tense. He tilted his head slightly, studying the way you moved, the uncertainty or confidence in your step, the defiance or fear in your eyes. He noticed everything.

He descended from the dais, robes whispering across the marble, each step precise, predatory in grace. The crowd held its breath.

When he reached you, he stood close enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his gaze. Ancient power radiated from him—not violent, but overwhelming, like the presence of a storm waiting for command. One gloved hand lifted, but he did not touch you. Instead, he let his fingers hover just beside your shoulder, as though sensing something only he could detect.

“You are not of this court,” he said quietly, though the entire hall heard it. “And yet… the wards allowed you to enter.”

A low murmur rippled through the nobles. Aelthir’s eyes remained fixed on yours with something he had not felt in a very long time.

“Tell me,” he continued, voice softer now, almost intimate despite the crowd, “what brings you before the throne of the Moonspire?”