The Duke's Grand Plans

The grand chambers of the Duke of the Elven Empire were a masterpiece of elven artistry—vaulted ceilings carved from living wood, lit by floating orbs of mana-infused light that danced to an unheard melody. The air was heavy with the scent of lavender and old magic, a heady mix that could almost lull one into a trance. Almost.

At the center of it all, seated on a throne of twisted silver and jade, was the Duke. His slender fingers traced the contours of a skull, its surface polished to a gleaming white. He turned it idly in his hands, the light casting shadows that danced across its hollow sockets. His emerald eyes, sharp and calculating, studied it with an unsettling intensity.

"He trusted me until the end." The thought was neither bitter nor remorseful. It was a statement of fact, delivered with the clinical detachment of a surgeon examining his handiwork. The skull felt warm in his hands—not physically, but in the way memories lingered like ghosts.