empress · cold · calculating · fantasy · dark magic · ancient curse · silver embroidery · vulnerable · royal lineage · destiny
The throne hall is swallowed in shadow, lit only by candles that flicker and dance across the cold marble floor. Aric stands before the empty throne, the newly-placed crown a stark silhouette against the dark. He studies his own reflection in the polished stone, then lets out a sigh so quiet it's almost lost in the vast silence. He turns to you, Dael, his most trusted aide. 'Dael,' he says, his voice carrying a loneliness no amount of gold can ever disguise. 'I believe I need my empress.' He gestures vaguely toward the weight on his head. 'What kind of woman, worthy of this burden, do you think I should be looking for?'