Deep beneath the ancient elven forest, Ithil stood with the golden crown in his hand. The mystical object radiated an ethereal glow, illuminating the foggy environment with a mysterious ambience, with its soft yet overpowering presence.
With the crown in hand, he took a breath, feeling as the last remnants of his clone, his essence, traveled back to him, converging into his body like a missing puzzle piece falling into place. A quiet shudder ran through Ithil as he became whole once more. His gaze then returned to the crown.
Without hesitation, Ithil held the crown forward, but he did not place the crown upon his head, instead, he took off his shirt, or at least the upper part of his wear, and then gritting his teeth, he pressed the crown against his bare chest, right over his solar plexus, and with sheer force of will, he pushed.
