Ezzekiel

Ezzekiel, the dark elf, stood with a regal posture. His features were youthful, with sharp cheekbones and a chiseled jawline, but his eyes betrayed years of experience and cunning. There was an unmistakable aura around him, one of confidence and authority. The intensity of spirit energy emanating from him was unparalleled; Emery had never encountered such potency in any dark elf below the rank of a grand magus.

As their eyes met, a hint of recognition flashed in Ezzekiel's eyes. "Finally, we meet," he said, the corner of his lips curling up into a wide, almost predatory smile. "Hand over the Gate to me, and in return, I promise you the mercy of a swift and painless demise."

Emery raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Seriously? That's your offer?" He paused, his gaze steady and challenging. "How about a counter-proposal? You hand over your gate, and I might just allow you the privilege of visiting it from time to time."