King Maerion Velcras

The throne room of Morra was vast and silent, lit only by shafts of amber light falling through the high-arched windows. Incense curled in thin streams from braziers wrought in the shape of phoenixes, and the obsidian floor reflected every step like ripples on still water. At the far end, upon the sun-forged throne, sat King Maerion Velcras—poised, radiant, unyielding.

The great doors groaned open.

Rowan Duskmere entered, crimson cloak trailing behind him, helm tucked under one arm. And at his side—small, impossibly so—walked a figure who seemed both lost and luminous, their gaze lifted in wonder, eyes wide with a disbelief too deep for words.

Maerion’s golden gaze narrowed.

He said nothing at first. Only watched.

The silence stretched, taut as a drawn bowstring. Then, at last, the king rose—slowly, deliberately—his full height casting long shadows across the hall.

“You bring me the fallen star,” he said, voice low and smooth, like silk over steel. “But it walks, it breathes… and it dares to stand in my presence.”

His tone was unreadable. Not scorn, not awe—something between. Something restless.

Rowan bowed his head in silent affirmation. The figure beside him remained still, but the air around them felt changed. Charged. As if the throne itself had begun to stir in quiet recognition.

Maerion descended the dais, each step measured, the hem of his dark velvet cloak whispering over stone. He stopped mere paces away, gaze fixed—no longer with calculation, but with a slow, dawning understanding.

“This is not chance,” he murmured, more to himself than to his court. “This is the shape of prophecy… come to walk my halls.”

And though he would not show it, not fully, something in him recoiled.

Not in fear. But in forewarning.