The throne of the palace was a monument to power, yet the weight of its decaying grandeur suffocated all who entered. The walls, once lined with vibrant tapestries and banners of long-forgotten victories, had dulled to a deep, oppressive gray. Time had worn the stone, but it was the palpable aura of despair and madness that had truly hollowed out the room, leaving it a tomb for hope. Thin rays of moonlight filtered in through narrow, cracked windows, only to be swallowed by the gloom that clung to every surface. The air was thick, humid, as though it had absorbed the fear and anguish of centuries.

Cyran Arana sat upon his throne, a figure of terrifying command, his presence bending the very atmosphere to his will. The throne, a grotesque creation of blackened iron, loomed at the far end of the chamber, twisted and jagged as if formed by some ancient, dark force. Its surface pulsated faintly with dark fae runes that never ceased their low, rhythmic hum. These runes pulsed in time with the beat of his heart, a sickening synchronization between the living and the damned. The cold metal of the throne seemed to embrace him as though the very seat of power was alive, a symbiotic partner to his reign.

Cyran sat perfectly still, but there was a coiled tension in his frame, like a predator biding its time. His armor, ornate and worn from countless battles, glinted faintly in the low light. It was not the gleam of polished steel, but rather a sinister glow from the fae magic etched into the metal, alive with an ancient power that thrummed with latent energy.

His raven-black hair, too immaculate to be natural, draped over his shoulders in perfect strands, as though each hair was in service to the twisted will of its master. But his eyes—those terrifying auburn irises—held the true horror. Flickering with an unnatural golden light, they burned in the dim chamber like twin embers from some distant inferno. His gaze was both faraway and predatory, surveying the room with a cold detachment, yet calculated.