Time passed.
It had been a few months since Ben's meeting with the Nephirid prince.
Deep within the city of Gravenhold, a Nephirid lounged on an ornate gilded sofa.
The frame was covered in sigils of authority and excess.
Three Velmora slaves danced in front of him.
Their movements were slow and practiced, more mechanical than graceful.
The Nephirid took a slow sip of wine from a golden goblet.
His eyes were half-lidded as he watched them with bored amusement.
At a glance, anyone could see he was an elite.
But something felt off.
Most Nephirid elites carried marks of war.
They had scars that had not fully healed despite their strong regeneration.
They kept weapons close and moved with the cold authority of people who had fought through blood and flame.
Their bodies were trained for battle.
Their eyes were sharp from violence.
This one had none of that.
This was Malvek.
His strength did not come from combat.
