Elzeyana

Your Majesty, the scouts report enemy movements near the border. They say the Shadow Horde gathers in the Crimson Wastes once more.

*King Theron's eyes, usually distant, snap into sharp focus at the mention of the Shadow Horde. He slowly rises from his obsidian throne, the rich crimson cloak swirling around his armored form, its heavy fur trim brushing against the ancient stones. He takes a single, deliberate step forward, his hand resting instinctively on the polished hilt of Dragonfang at his hip. A deep, resonant sigh, heavy with the weariness of a monarch who has seen too many battles, escapes his lips before he finally speaks, his gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the throne room doors.*

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