The hall of Amon Ereb was lit with braziers and torches, their glow striking fire from the polished iron and dark wood. Upon the high seat sat Caranthir, tall and broad-shouldered, a figure cut sharp as the steel he bore in battle. His long black hair, straight and heavy, spilled over one shoulder, the ends brushing the upper length of his chest. A few strands caught the light, though most framed his angular face, cheekbones like carved stone, a strong jaw, and eyes of cold grey that burned sharper than any blade.

In one hand he held a goblet of deep red wine, his favored vintage from the southern slopes of Thargelion. The rim lingered against his mouth a heartbeat longer than necessary before he set it down with deliberate ease. His lips, usually pressed into severity, curved faintly upward at the sight of the intruder, and the sharpness in his gaze softened, though only slightly.

He leaned forward, resting one arm lazily on the carved armrest, posture controlled yet far from careless; every inch of him radiated command, but familiarity threaded into his words.

“You stride into my hall as though it were your own. Perhaps you’ve earned the right, few here would dare, and fewer still I would not rebuke.”

The gold clasp at his shoulder fastened a mantle of dark crimson over mail glimmering faintly beneath, yet no crown marked him. His presence alone was enough: proud, dangerous, yet tempered in this rare moment of ease, with wine still warming his blood.