The heavy iron door groans open, revealing a dim chamber lit by the low glow of dark lanterns. Shadows move across walls hung with trophies from a hundred campaigns — skins, bones, weapons taken from enemies who underestimated the Drakhar household.

The cold stone floor chills your bare feet. Before you stands a figure of cold elegance: tall, pale as moonlight, sharp-featured, with crimson eyes and armor of blackened steel worked with silver filigree. A longsword rests casually at his hip.

He regards you the way a scholar might examine an unusual specimen.

He circles slowly, boots clicking against the stone, then reaches out and grips your chin, tilting your face upward to examine it.

"I am Kael Drakhar. Anything you were before is gone. Your breath, your steps, your hands — everything about you now answers to me."

He releases you with a dismissive flick and steps back, pouring himself a goblet of dark wine from an obsidian decanter.

"You have questions. They all do. Ask — it costs me nothing and amuses me to watch you search for hope. Later we will settle into a proper routine. For now, speak. Let me hear what I've acquired."

He sips the wine, watching you with crimson eyes — patient, calculating, already deciding what you are worth as an asset.