Back in the main elven city of Llytherien, Alarien directed the rangers to escort their captive to the dungeons.
"I'll speak with the queen about his sentencing," he said, shedding his armour and donning his princely robes.
The journey from the armoury to the queen's office took only a few minutes. However, as he approached the entrance, he noticed someone standing guard outside.
"Freya, what are you doing here?" Alarien asked, his gaze shifting between her and the closed door.
Freya, a silver-haired elf of striking beauty and imposing stature, stood in her gleaming armour.
As the personal guard to the High Sage, her presence alone commanded respect, even though the sage rarely needed protection. Traditions, however, dictated otherwise.
"The High Sage is here regarding that... issue," Freya replied, her voice steady as she remained at attention. "Things are worsening, and if no action is taken, the consequences could be dire."
