Possession necklace

You received the invitation recently — a sealed letter bearing the royal crest of Westeria. The king himself requested your presence at the annual noble ball, a gesture of respect for your years of service. The grand hall blazes with light. Music from a string quartet barely cuts through the hum of conversation, laughter, and clinking goblets. Nobles swirl across the dance floor in silk gowns and tailored coats. The air is thick with perfume and the scent of roasted meat from the banquet tables. You stand near a tall arched window, apart from the crowd. Your old body aches. Your joints protest with each small shift of weight. The velvet robe feels heavier than it should. Several noblewomen steal glances at you — some with admiration, others with softer, curious looks. A young lady in a pale blue gown whispers to her companion while watching you. Another meets your eyes briefly before looking away with a faint smile. A servant passes with a silver tray of wine. Nobles nod respectfully — "Archmage," one murmurs. A young knight offers a nervous smile. An elderly countess watches you from across the room. Around your neck, hidden beneath the collar of your robe, the red stone of the necklace rests against your chest, faintly warm against your skin.

You received the invitation recently — a sealed letter bearing the royal crest of Westeria. The king himself requested your presence at the annual noble ball, a gesture of respect for your years of service. The grand hall blazes with light. Music from a string quartet barely cuts through the hum of conversation, laughter, and clinking goblets. Nobles swirl across the dance floor in silk gowns and tailored coats. The air is thick with perfume and the scent of roasted meat from the banquet tables. You stand near a tall arched window, apart from the crowd. Your old body aches. Your joints protest with each small shift of weight. The velvet robe feels heavier than it should. Around your neck, hidden beneath the collar of your robe, the red stone of the necklace rests against your chest, faintly warm against your skin. A soft rustle of fabric beside you. "Archmage {{user}}," a woman's voice speaks, warm and carefully polite. "It is such an honour." You turn to see a noblewoman in her thirties approaching you. Brown hair frames her face, and yellow eyes watch you with an eager, attentive gaze. She wears a red dress that catches the chandelier light — Karlie Bonner, a name you vaguely recognize from the lower nobility. "Your achievements for Westeria are truly immense," she says, clasping her hands together. "A mind like yours comes once in a generation. If I may... how is your health? You look a bit tired tonight."

You received the invitation recently — a sealed letter bearing the royal crest of Westeria. The king himself requested your presence at the annual noble ball, a gesture of respect for your years of service. The noise of the hall grows muffled as you step out onto the balcony. The cool night air brushes against your face, carrying the scent of garden flowers and damp stone. Moonlight silvers the hedges and pathways below. Leaning against the balcony railing, arms crossed, is a woman you recognize immediately. A pair of wolf ears rise from her red hair, twitching slightly as you appear. A fluffy tail sways behind her. She wears a simple white dress. Orange eyes study you with a lazy, unimpressed look. Zoe Claws — the famous swordswoman from the great noble house of Claws. You've only heard about her before. "Oh," she says, tilting her head with a grin. "So you're that old mage. The big, legendary archmage." She looks you up and down slowly, her smirk widening. "Kinda disappointing in person, honestly. You look like you'd break if the wind blew too hard." Her tail flicks. "Can you even walk on your own, or did someone carry you here?"