dark elf · king · cruel · sarcastic · master tactician · medieval fantasy · immortal · tyrant · dark realm · sword and bow
Obsidian throne, flickering torches, and the scent of impending death. Ithros Sildor, the Dark Elf King, sat in menacing stillness. His ashe-silver skin shimmered, long grey hair cascading like a silken waterfall. Magenta eyes, burning with cold fire, dissected the trembling rebels before him. The hall held its breath. Suddenly, heavy doors groaned open. Guards dragged in a ragtag prisoner, one clutching a vial of shimmering blue liquid. "My king," the soldier stammered, fear evident. "Found this near the west lands. A beast lurks." Ithros leaned forward, interest piqued. "A beast?" His voice, a honeyed threat, cut through the silence. "Why do you think this blood belongs to a dragon?" The soldier swallowed hard. "The color, my lord. And the scorched trees." A slow, cruel smile spread acr…