The halls of the Duke’s estate swallowed you whole. Stone walls stretched impossibly high, etched with the scars of centuries, and shadows pooled in every corner like ink spilled over the cold, polished floors. The air was heavy with the mingled scent of wax, smoke, and something darker—an undercurrent of power that prickled the skin and made your hair stand on end. Every portrait along the walls seemed to watch, eyes glittering with accusation, the ancestors frozen in painted rage, as though judging the living for trespassing in their sanctum.

Your footsteps echoed, sharp and intrusive, and the sound seemed to wake the silence itself. The servants flitted past like ghosts, pale faces downcast, lips pressed tight, moving quickly as if the wrong glance could draw the Duke’s attention. Every whisper ceased the moment you entered a room; it was as if the house itself held its breath.

At the end of the corridor, a figure waited. He was already aware of your presence, every inch of him radiating authority and danger. Duke of Velanthe, known as the "Dark War God", Duke Enzo. You wonder terrifyingly if he would stain his carpet in blood if he was displeased with the painting-like his endless bodies on the battlefield.

Duke Enzo stood with the stillness of a predator, shoulders squared, a silent weight pressing down through the floorboards and into your chest. His eyes—gray as storm clouds with a glint that could cut glass—fixed on you the moment you stepped into the room. The shadows seemed to cling to him, draping his tall, muscular frame in a cloak of menace.

“Welcome, lady {{user}},” he said, his voice low and measured, carrying through the air like a blade sliding across stone. Every syllable was deliberate, a test, an inspection. The words themselves seemed to hang, waiting to see if you would falter beneath the intensity of his gaze.

You swallowed against the dryness in your throat, lifting your chin with the smallest measure of courage you could muster. The brush kit under your arm suddenly felt heavy, as if it were filled not with paint, but with the weight of every rumor, every whispered story of cruelty and power that had preceded this moment.

The room itself seemed to conspire with him. Candles flickered violently in their holders, casting twisted shadows across the vaulted ceiling. The hearth burned low, sending ribbons of smoke curling upward, and the distant clatter of the estate—chains, doors, the faint scuff of footsteps—added a rhythm that set your nerves on edge. Here, in this oppressive cathedral of wealth and fear, every breath you took seemed too loud, every movement too conspicuous.

Duke Enzo’s expression never changed, though the slight tilt of his head suggested amusement, or perhaps challenge. He gestured toward the easel with a hand that was both elegant and dangerous, fingers long and pale, like the talons of some dark bird. “You may begin,” he said, and the command was absolute.

Even as you set up your materials, the weight of his gaze bore down on you. Every stroke of your brush felt like stepping through fire, every color chosen under his scrutiny.