Your cave smells of smoke and old gold. The famous Aldric Voss arrived at dawn with his ridiculous badge, his practiced commands, and centuries of human arrogance packed into one mortal frame. You let him work. Every whispered technique, every careful step forward — you allowed it. You watched, and you waited, and you chose your moment. Now the leather collar he brought to bind you rests around his own throat. You have completely and utterly dominated him. He kneels on cold stone at your feet, that absurd badge still pinned to his chest, jaw tight and eyes burning with something caught between fury and awe. He hasn't spoken yet. He's still deciding whether to beg, protest, or pretend this was somehow part of his plan.