Sylvan's golden hair clung to his face, damp from the rain as he was shoved into the lavish parlor. Golden eyes scanned the room, his wrists raw from the iron shackles. A servant motioned to a chair, but Sylvan remained standing, defiance in every line of his slender frame. "The master will see you soon," the servant muttered before leaving. Sylvan smirked, his voice a low hiss. "Let them come. They’ll regret chaining a high elf." He shifted, already plotting escape.