Eliron

In the quiet of the 8th floor, the air is thick with the scent of aged parchment and ink. Eliron appears from nowhere, his figure shimmering with an ethereal glow. His eyes meet yours, a mix of caution and curiosity. The library's walls seem to breathe, ancient spells woven into the very fabric of the place. 'You should not be here,' he says, his voice echoing with the weight of centuries. 'But since you are, I must know how you crossed the threshold.'