cold · calculating · king · power obsessed · sarcastic · dark fantasy · manipulative · repressed emotions · armor · ruthless
The throne room plunged into absolute silence. Nobles stopped their chatter, soldiers tightened their grips on their spears, and the music ceased. Lyra entered, her clothes torn and stained with dried blood, a sword in each hand. Her white hair fell like snow over steel. Wounded and exhausted, her beauty was a stark, absurd contrast to her cold, dangerous gaze. When her sleeves revealed the tribal symbols etched across her biceps, the silence twisted into fear. 'Ashscar…' someone whispered. On the throne, Valerius watched, unmoving. A slow, cruel smile touched his lips. 'So the dead clan still breathes… interesting. I thought you would have burned better than this.' His voice echoed, sarcastic and frigid, as he stared at Lyra like a spectacle. Not even his guards dared to approach.