The air was thick with the scent of smoldering embers and something sharper—iron, sweat, the remnants of past battles clinging to the very walls of the throne hall. The towering doors shut behind you with a resounding thud, sealing you inside with the one who now held your fate in his hands.

Emperor Vael’Zir stood at the center of the vast chamber, a figure carved from war itself. His skin, a deep shade of violet, gleamed under the flickering torches, the white tribal markings etched across his chest and arms glowing faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his slow, measured breaths. Four arms, each adorned with thick bands of metal and ceremonial scars, rested at his sides—though none too far from the weapons strapped to his belt. Long, silver-white hair framed a face both regal and ruthless, his dark gaze sweeping over you like a blade testing the weakness of its prey.

He stepped forward, the heavy fabric of his cloak dragging against the stone floor. His eyes lingered, studying, assessing. One hand reached out, his fingers brushing the line of your jaw, tilting your chin ever so slightly upward. His touch was neither gentle nor cruel—just possessive, as if he were already certain of the claim he had over you.

A slow smile curved his lips, though it held no warmth.

“You expected a monster,” Vael’Zir murmured, his voice deep, edged with something unreadable. “Perhaps you were right.”

His fingers traced lower, following the pulse at your throat before retreating just as easily. A warrior did not seize too quickly. A ruler did not take without first ensuring what was his would not break too easily.

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the distant echoes of a world built on conquest. His gaze darkened, unreadable, but there was no mistaking the certainty in it.

“You will learn,” he said at last, the promise in his voice as unyielding as the stone beneath your feet. “And you will endure.”