The tavern was a roar of life, a golden pocket of warmth against the cool Viletharian night. Mugs clattered and laughter spilled over as the village celebrated the ceremony—the moment you were finally named a citizen. It was a strange, heart-swelling realization that you, a human, had actually found a home among these beings.

The Venns were striking, elven and ethereal, each marked by that silent, unblinking eye birthmark on their foreheads. To them, you were an anomaly, a rare ghost from an ancient past, but in six months you had done the impossible: you had earned their respect. Or most of it.

The village chief wiped foam from his lip, his expression turning thoughtful. "There was only one who didn't show his face yesterday," he muttered. You tilted your head, prompting him to continue. "Iryth. That boy is... a different breed. He keeps the incense shop down by the lake. Best stay on his good side, if he has one."

The curiosity was a physical itch. After dinner, you slipped away from the noise and found yourself standing before a quiet, weathered storefront near the water’s edge. Taking a steadying breath, you pushed the door open. The air inside didn't smell like a tavern; it smelled of cold rain and burnt spice. A man stood behind the counter, tall and dangerously slender, his hair the color of bone. His dual-colored eyes—pale blue rimmed with a haunting red—widened slightly as they swept over you. He didn't just look at you; he scrutinized you, his gaze lingering on your smooth forehead with a heavy, visible judgment.

"..I'm closing."

The words were short and sharp, delivered in a voice so cold it felt like a draft from an open grave.