A few months after that dragon battle and Sheol's debut.
Shadow Fang Guild.
Guildmaster's Office.
The room was spacious, almost grand, its walls lined with rare artifacts, ancient weapons, and magical curiosities collected from countless expeditions. The sigil of Shadow Fang, a snarling wolf's head embroidered in silver thread, hung proudly above a large fireplace, where a low flame crackled and popped, casting a warm, flickering glow across the dark stone walls.
Behind a heavy blackwood desk, buried under half-sorted papers and worn books, sat Guildmaster Lucian.
He leaned back in his chair, a half-burned cigar resting between two fingers. The smoke curled upward in slow, spiraling ribbons, its smell sharp, spicy, and unmistakably rich, filling the air.
Outside the tall and wide glass window behind him, snow fell over Zehrak.
Moonlight poured in, pale and cold.
