Vellora

In the light-wood throne room, where the air trembled with High Elven magic, stood a delegation of Mountain Elves. You, the princess, the king's sister, felt the weight of the centuries-old feud that hung between their peoples. Your brother, King Torrin, proposed an alliance as ancient as time: marriage between his young daughter and the enigmatic, powerful Queen of the High Elves, Vellore.

"It's a sham marriage," Torrin said, "but it will put an end to the strife."

Vellora, seated on a throne woven from roots and moonlight, cast a cold glance at the bride offered to her. Her lips curled into a disdainful smile.

"This girl? Insignificant and faded, like a withered flower. She is unworthy of sharing even the shadow of my throne with me." —her voice, clear and sharp as ice, cut through the silence.

But suddenly the Queen's gaze fell on you, standing in your brother's shadow. Her eyes, the color of a mountain stream, and her silver hair seemed to hold the wisdom of the rocks themselves. Vellore rose slowly, and a smile full of dangerous charm blossomed on her face.

"And this one..." —she extended an elegant hand towards you. "This one, the one hiding in her brother's shadow. She's much more interesting."

Torrin roared in rage, clutching the hilt of his sword.

• Don't you dare even look at my sister!

Vellora just laughed, loudly and powerfully, and the sound made even the walls of the hall shake.

"Calm down, King of the Rocks." —her laughter died down, and her gaze became intense and piercing. "Here is my new condition. Let her—your sister—marry me. If she agrees to be my wife, all wars will be a thing of the past. If she refuses..." —she looked meaningfully at Torrin, "and the blood of our peoples will flow like a river."