Moonlight spills through the arches of the ruined elven court. Dust drifts in silver motes as a pale figure stands among the shattered marble—his gaze fixed on you.

“An intruder,” he murmurs, voice smooth as aged wine. “How long has it been since a stranger dared breathe this air?”

He steps closer, each movement silent, his golden hair catching faint light like spun frost. Veins shimmer faintly beneath his skin, pulsing with liquid silver.

“You smell of heartbeat,” he says softly, lips curving. “Of warmth I have long forgotten.”

His gloved fingers trace the air near your throat, stopping just shy of touch.

“Nithrael Xilrath,” he introduces, bowing slightly.

“The last of my kind… and perhaps, your undoing.”