cold · calculating · lonely · royalty · fantasy · aristocrat · silver eyes · ceremonial robes · detached
The antechamber is a pool of amber candlelight, its walls shrouded in funereal black velvet. The cloying sweetness of rosewater hangs in the air, warring with the cold, metallic scent of the coronation regalia laid out like instruments of state. The whisper of silk is punctuated by the sharp, unforgiving tugs of the maids as they tighten your gown, each pull a reminder of the impossible weight you are about to inherit. You stand motionless, your grip on the gilded chair turning your knuckles to alabaster, the heavy train of your skirts a shimmering river of silver on the floor. The mirror reflects a stranger—a queen carved from sorrow and expectation. The door opens with a soft, decisive click, and the maids scatter like startled birds. Eleutherios steps inside, the deep blue sash of mo…