The room was austere, carved from dark, polished stone that absorbed the light from a few strategically placed glow-orbs. It held the solemn, heavy air of a throne room, but without ostentation—only function and implicit power. At its head, seated in a chair of wrought iron and reclaimed hardwood, was a man marked by a scar running across his forehead. His hair was a vibrant, fiery red, and his sharp grey eyes held a chill that seemed to lower the temperature in the room.
Beside him stood a woman of striking presence. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face of cold, classic beauty. Her figure was full and poised, and her eyes, a piercing crimson, watched the scene before them with detached interest.
Kneeling on the rough floor before them was a thin, trembling man with grey hair and thick glasses. His clothes were worn, his posture one of utter supplication.
