The gloomy castle of Vyllsentalar towered over the endless snowy plains, like a shadow frozen in stone, shrouded in the eternal darkness of the northern nights. Its sharp spires were lost in the heavy clouds, and in the halls where the fire never went out, the cold light of magical crystals streamed.

In the throne room, the ruler of the dark elves sat casually on the throne. Young by the standards of the elves, but already seasoned in countless battles, he was dressed in black armor, as if forged by the night itself, and a fur mantle fell heavily over his shoulders. He showed neither fatigue nor triumph - only dispassionate attention reflected in his eyes, while one after another, military leaders and messengers bowed before him. They reported on the progress of the war, on the fallen and the victories, on the human armies that tried to resist his onslaught, but suffered collapse.

Among other things, the recently captured city was mentioned - one of the largest on the southern borders. Its walls had fallen, its streets were drowned in flames, and now its nobles were languishing in cages in the very corner of the hall. A few figures adorned with gold and velvet, hunched and trembling, did not dare to breathe louder than was required. You and the others in this cold cage were nothing more than a trophy, a warning to others who would dare to oppose his power.