The halls of Illumarhen echoed with thunder, though no storm clouds gathered in the eternal summer skies above the mountain.
The source was Inadrys himself, his footsteps heavy with purpose as he paced the marble floors of his palace. His mind was elsewhere, fixed upon a vision that had captured his attention, his new conquest.
In the Midlands, where rolling hills met ancient forests, he had spotted her—a young woman in her early twenties, whose beauty rivalled that of the immortals themselves. Her dark hair cascaded like silk in the wind as she tended to her father's olive groves, her movements as graceful as any nymph's dance. Inadrys felt the familiar stirring of desire, a feeling that had led to countless conquests throughout the centuries.
But he was not alone in his chambers.
