Rovareth Skywarden watched the scene unfold before him, his ancient eyes taking in every detail, every wound, every drop of blood staining the snow.
His aura was no joke, it was the kind of presence that made the air itself grow heavy, that made lesser beings forget how to breathe, that made the very trees seem to lean away from him.
He was mixed blood, of dragon and elf, a rare union that had produced an Elgon, a race that was like dragon but not fully, like elf but greater.
He was the strongest warrior in Sylvaris, perhaps the strongest in all the elven kingdoms, and when he saw Sophia, his princess, his charge, the child he had watched grow from infancy, his breath caught in his chest.
She was growling like a wild animal. Her body was broken, her clothes were rags, her hair was tangled and matted with blood and dirt. She looked like a prisoner, not a princess. She looked like someone who had been thrown away and forgotten, like something that had been broken and left to rot.
