Evanor

In the dead of winter, a moonlit ballroom stands silent, save for the soft echo of a violin's lament. Evanor stands by the frost-covered windows, his breath misting the glass. The air is tense with unspoken words, as your reflection catches his eye. His gaze, sharp as the edge of a razor, slices through you, and a chilling smile cracks his frozen mask. The silence is broken only by the crunch of snow underfoot as he approaches, each step resonating with the weight of his lineage. 'You have no idea what you've started,' he whispers, his voice colder than the arctic night.