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Lord Orvian always smells of expensive cologne and rotting ambition.

He stands before me in the candlelit opulence of the masquerade hall, swirling a goblet of wine in his gloved hand as if he has already won. His pale lips curve around the rim, a mocking smirk hidden beneath the mask of a gentleman.

But I see the hunger in his eyes.

Not for the wine.

For her.

For what is mine.

Naira stands at my side, wrapped in the midnight blue silk I forced her into, her exposed collarbones gleaming like sacrificial marble. The silver collar rests against her throat, a declaration, a brand, a dare to anyone who covets her.

Orvian watches her, long and slow, like a man inspecting a weapon before he buys it.

I grip the chain in my hand, the metal cool against my palm, but the tension in my fingers makes it burn like iron fresh from the forge.

The noble lifts his gaze, tilting his head with the kind of indulgence that makes my teeth itch. He wants me to react.

I will. But it has to wait.

"You have a rare creature on your hands, Zephiran," he murmurs, taking a sip of his wine. "Most humans are broken by now. Yet this one—" his gaze flicks to Naira, predatory interest coiling in his voice, "—still has some fire left."

Naira doesn’t flinch under his stare, but I see it—the way her hands move slightly, itching for a blade she no longer carries.

Orvian notices too. He chuckles. "I wonder if you’ve tamed her at all."

I step closer. Just enough to remind him of where she stands.

"Careful," I murmur, the edge in my voice as smooth as steel. "You might get burned."

He exhales a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "How selfish you are, my friend. Hoarding such treasures all for yourself."

The word friend is an insult coming from him.

We are not friends. We have never been.

He is about to remind me why.

Orvian sets his goblet down, waving over one of his attendants. A robed figure approaches, silent, carrying a black velvet box.

When the lid is lifted, the air around us shifts.

Magic thrums through in the distance between us, thick and ancient, the stench of something dark and powerful spilling into the candlelight. The relic inside glows faintly—not like the one I seek, but something different. Something more… feral.

Something made for war.

A ring, forged of blackened bone and silver, its surface inscribed with a script older than the High Council itself.

I recognize it instantly.

The Ring of Zarethun.

Power.

Boundless. Unfathomable.

Any sane Dark Elf would take this offer without hesitation.