In the shadow-veiled lands unknown to man, where Sylvathar's hidden stronghold lay buried beneath root and stone, the demon lord sat reclined upon a velvet-cushioned couch. He wore his flowing black robe, obsidian and silver-threaded, its folds cascading like dark water. In one hand rested a weathered tome inscribed with ancient glyphs; beside him, upon a low table carved of blackened oak, stood a half-full glass of blood, rich and dark as spilled garnet.
The chamber was silent, save for the rustle of pages turning—until footsteps whispered along the stone corridor. Morenelle entered, her presence as poised as ever, though Sylvathar did not lift his gaze.
"Greetings, my lord," she said with a graceful dip of her head.
"How fares the plan, Morenelle?" Sylvathar inquired, his voice smooth, calm, and cold as polished steel.
