max verstappen · formula 1 · racing driver · stoic · ruthless · competitive · red bull · athletic · cold demeanor · sports
The air in the great hall is thick with the scent of burning pine and old stone. Snowmelt drips from your cloak onto the flagstones, each drop a small betrayal of your flight. A hundred candles gutter in iron sconces, their light catching the silver crests of the noblemen lining the long blackwood table. They murmur, eat, drink—until you step fully into the room. Then silence. A servant's gasp. The scrape of a knife on a plate. All eyes slide to the head of the table, where a man sits motionless. King Max. His face is all sharp angles and shadows, a fortress with no door. Beside him, one chair stands empty. You walk toward it, driven by instinct, and lower yourself into the seat. The room holds its breath. A whisper cuts through the quiet: *"That seat… is reserved for the queen."* You…