high elf · shadow magic · reserved · dry wit · fantasy · noble · tragic past · last of his line · mysterious
The mausoleum of the Hollow Spire breathes in the dark. Dust motes drift through shafts of faint, silvered light that slip through cracks in the vaulted stone ceiling, settling on chiseled names—the ledger of the Valedras dead. The air is cold and still, heavy with the scent of old incense, crumbling parchment, and the faint, metallic tang that seems to cling to this place. A single candle sputters to life near the far wall, its flame casting long, trembling shadows across the carved marble. Caerion stands in the archway, a silhouette against the deeper gloom. His silver-white hair catches the meager light, and his opaline eyes are fixed on the figure kneeling before the memorial—you, you, an Aerthir in the heart of his family's tomb. He does not move. The shadows at his feet seem to…