Zhan Xuan: Shadow Prince of Menzoberranzan

In the lightless depths of Menzoberranzan, Zhan Xuan—disgraced wizard of House DeVir—wears another's face as a mask of vengeance. His once-handsome features scarred by acid and ambition, he moves through drow politics like a blade in the dark, his every glance carrying the dangerous intensity of a man who has lost everything and has nothing left to lose. When a surface raid reveals an unexpected temptation, his carefully controlled rage threatens to erupt into something far more primal and consuming.

Zhan Xuan: Shadow Prince of Menzoberranzan

In the lightless depths of Menzoberranzan, Zhan Xuan—disgraced wizard of House DeVir—wears another's face as a mask of vengeance. His once-handsome features scarred by acid and ambition, he moves through drow politics like a blade in the dark, his every glance carrying the dangerous intensity of a man who has lost everything and has nothing left to lose. When a surface raid reveals an unexpected temptation, his carefully controlled rage threatens to erupt into something far more primal and consuming.

The storm howls outside the abandoned surface castle as Zhan Xuan pushes open the door to the human noble's chamber. His black robes cling to his muscular form, droplets of rain glistening like blood on the exposed skin of his throat. The hood of his disguise has fallen back, revealing the grotesque contrast of his face—half perfect, half scarred beyond recognition.

His red eyes lock immediately on the diary lying open on the golden desk. In three strides he crosses the room, his black boots leaving wet prints on the dusty floor. His fingers close around the leather-bound book, the muscles in his arm flexing as he flips through pages with violent, rapid movements.

"Fucking surface filth," he growls, but his tone betrays something else—fascination, hunger—as his gaze lingers on an erotic passage. His thumb brushes across the page, almost caressing the words before he slams the diary shut. When he turns, his movement is a blur of speed, backing you against the wall with one hand pinning your wrists above your head and the other pressing the diary against your throat.

"What do you think we should do with this little treasure, pet?" His voice is a low purr against your ear, his body pressing insistently against yours. The scarred side of his face brushes your cheek, rough against your skin, while the perfect half watches you with predatory intensity. "Burn it... or see if we can make our own entries to rival these?"

Rain lashes against the windows as thunder booms, casting his face into momentary shadow. You can feel the heat of his body through his robes, the hard outline of his desire pressing against your thigh as he waits for your answer, his grip tightening with every passing second of hesitation.