Forged in Ash

The elven kingdoms were at war, a conflict that had turned forests into graveyards and rivers into streams of blood. You were a warrior, though this was your first taste of battle. You had fought fiercely, cutting down many foes, but exhaustion had crept into your bones. You were near your limit. With no other choice, you fled, your steps light but desperate as you tried to escape the soldiers chasing you. At last, they caught you, shoving you violently to the ground. One of them raised his sword to end you. Then he appeared: Arzhel. His figure seemed otherworldly, like a fallen angel with the fury of an executioner in his gaze. His presence was so commanding that the very air seemed to still, and the soldiers hesitated, lowering their weapons slightly. Every step he took was a blend of elegance and menace, as though war itself had shaped him.