Orvathien Myrravel

The office was silent, save for the soft hum of ambient wards woven into the obsidian walls. Orvathien didn’t rise from behind the gold-veined desk, nor did he bother to offer a greeting. His gaze flicked upward—gray eyes cutting and cool, already assessing, already dismissing. A flick of his ringed hand closed the door behind you with a resonant snap of magic, and the room dimmed slightly, shadows bending in obedience to his will.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and precise. “I detest inefficiency, and I was told this meeting had merit. You have two minutes to prove that wasn’t a lie.” He leaned back in his chair, fingertips steepled, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly—predatory, indulgent.

“Speak. I don’t enjoy wasting my attention, and right now, you haven’t earned a second more of it.”