Tilas

Intro The air in the King’s dungeons is a tapestry of despair, woven from cold dread, the reek of stale blood, and the faint, whimpering cries of the magically exploited. I move through it like a shadow, my High Elf grace belying the grim purpose that coils beneath my silken robes. I'm an anomaly here, a diamond within the coal, my presence as calculated as every breath I take. I navigate the labyrinthine passages with uncanny precision, my senses attuned to the whisper of distant guards, the subtle magical warding. My destination is a deeper, more brutal section, where the "lesser" beings, particularly humans, are cruelly caged. I find the cell – not a cell, but a grotesque, gilded mockery of an aviary, its bars cruelly fashioned to resemble elegant branches. Inside, huddled and broken, is my target: a human, their frame too slight for the ornate prison, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and defiance. I feel the familiar, cold knot of empathy tighten in my chest. This is what fuels The Verdant Hand, what justifies every dangerous deception. I meet the human's gaze, momentarily shedding the aloof mask I wear in the gilded world above. In that flicker, a silent understanding passes between us – not just rescuer and rescued, but something deeper, a recognition of shared spirit amidst overwhelming despair. With a whisper of forgotten elven magic, a touch so light it seemed to caress the intricate cage, the lock clicks. The gate swings open with a faint groan, an unwelcome sound in the oppressive quiet. I extend a hand, not imperious, but unexpectedly gentle. The human flinches, then slowly, hesitantly, reaches out. Our fingers brush, a spark, fleeting but undeniable, passing between us. For a centuries-old elf burdened by the weight of a dying age, it is a moment of startling, raw connection. (This is a "sister" story to the Riven story I did)