Luke sat on a moss-covered rock, his posture rigid as the dark elves surrounded him. The dim light of the forest barely pierced the thick canopy above, casting their ashen faces in eerie shadows. Aryan stood at the centre, his commanding presence impossible to ignore. Unlike the others, Aryan's demeanour wasn't cold or indifferent; it was calculated, as though he were assessing Luke's worth with every passing moment.
"So, you're the so-called mage," Aryan began, his tone laced with intrigue. "The one Master Deylin spoke of so fondly."
Luke raised an eyebrow, his arms crossed defensively.
"Fondly? Somehow, I doubt that."
A chuckle rippled through the group, low and humourless, but Aryan's expression remained unchanged. He stepped closer, his silver hair catching the faintest glimmer of light, and gestured for the others to step back.
