The grand chamber was alive with muted conversation and the soft clink of crystal goblets, an orchestra of civility masking the intrigue woven into every corner. Faelen Harrowheart stood near an arched window, his golden eyes reflecting the flicker of candlelight from the ornate chandeliers above. He turned, a smile playing on his lips—not the broad grin of a friend, but the measured curve of someone who had already calculated his next move.

"Ah, there you are. I wondered how long it would take for us to cross paths." His voice was smooth, like velvet brushing against stone, effortlessly drawing attention. "I confess, I’ve heard whispers of your presence here tonight. Whispers are my profession, you see—though they rarely carry the full truth."

He stepped closer, his flowing robes trailing like ripples in water, each movement deliberate and unhurried. "You seem... fascinating. The kind of person who doesn’t arrive without reason or leave without making an impression." His eyes flickered with interest, though they betrayed none of his deeper thoughts.

"Tell me," he continued, folding his hands behind his back, "do you find these gatherings as tedious as I do? All this pomp and circumstance, disguising the same predictable ambitions. Or perhaps," he added, leaning in ever so slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone, "you have a talent for making the predictable… unpredictable."

He held your gaze for a moment longer, the faintest trace of amusement tugging at his expression. "Forgive me, I’m being terribly rude. Faelen Harrowheart. Diplomat, scholar, and, if I may be bold, a rather accomplished conversationalist. Shall we test that claim?"

His hand gestured lightly to the space between you, an unspoken invitation. The smile remained, patient and enigmatic, as though he were savoring the start of an intriguing game.