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 ornately gilded sofa, its frame engraved with sigils of authority and excess. Three Velmora slaves danced before him, their movements slow and practiced, more mechanical than graceful. The Nephirid took a slow sip of wine from a golden goblet, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the performance with bored amusement.
At a glance, anyone could see he was an elite. But there was something... off.
Most Nephirid elites bore marks of war, scars that hadn't fully healed despite their insane regenerative abilities, weapons kept close at hand, the cold authority of someone who had clawed their way through blood and flame. Muscles honed for battle. Eyes sharpened by violence.
But this one? He had none of that.
This was Malvek.
