"Lucius Lark," Bel-ibni's voice reverberated through the hall, his tone heavy with disdain as he raised his hand from the arm of his throne. The pressure in the room seemed to amplify, a chill permeating the air, almost as if the temperature itself obeyed his command.
"On the Erishkal name, why aren't you… supposedly dead?" Bel-ibni's gaze shifted to his daughter, who turned her head towards the large gate, avoiding eye contact.
"Well, I don't know about that..." Lucius began, raising his hand to his face, fingers spread in a theatrical gesture of contemplation.
He paused, then expanded the gesture with a sudden, exaggerated realization. "Oh, I know! She wants a new guide." A sly smile crept across his face, the corners of his mouth lifting in a taunting grin.
In the dimly lit hall, Lucius stepped forward, emerging from the shadows like a wraith. His armor, an embodiment of icy menace, gleamed with a faint blue hue, as if perpetually dusted with frost.
