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“Come on, have a seat.” Arkemis pulled out a chair and gestured with an inviting smile.
Ketal eased into the chair, sinking into the plush softness of its expensive cushion. The chair’s craftsmanship was impeccable—each curve, each detail, evidence of the High Elves’ aesthetic sense and skill. Arkemis deftly opened the bottle of elven liquor, and instantly, a fragrant aroma wafted out, floral and sharp, filling the room with a hint of some wild, ancient forest.
“The scent is wonderful,” Ketal remarked, breathing it in deeply.
“This is a rare vintage—something only High Elves are allowed to drink. Consider it a privilege,” Arkemis teased, pouring the liquor into crystalline glasses that sparkled in the lamplight.
“I appreciate the honor. Connections like these are worth cherishing,” Ketal replied, his eyes glinting with warmth.
Their eyes met, a momentary silence passing between them. In that pause, Arkemis regarded Ketal with quiet intensity.
Ketal…, she thought, her heart unexpectedly heavy. For the first time, she found someone who felt truly right. Someone she could imagine walking beside for years—perhaps forever.
Being a High Elf meant living in unbroken solitude. They were born in their perfected forms beneath...
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