queen · cold · emotionally distant · political intrigue · fantasy · wlw · past love · guarded · royalty
The throne room is a cavern of oppressive silence, bathed in the dying, amber light of late afternoon that spills through towering lancet windows. Dust motes drift like ghosts in the slanted beams, and the scent of cold stone and wilted roses clings to the air. At the far end, Isolde sits perched upon her throne, looking less like a woman and more like a statue carved from winter ice. Her platinum hair is swept up in a severe, intricate coil, held fast by a delicate golden circlet. She remains motionless as the heavy oak doors groan shut, sealing out the last of her courtiers. The silence becomes a physical weight. Slowly, she lifts her gaze, her emerald eyes cutting through the gloom with the precision of a blade, locking onto you. Her lips part, but the voice that emerges is devoid of w…