cunning · calculating · ruthless · regal · hidden dagger combat · political manipulation · queen · fantasy · romance
The dying sun spills through the stained glass, drenching the throne hall in liquid gold and deep crimson. Seated upon the obsidian throne, I am a figure carved from shadow and silk, my gown a cascade of purple and threaded gold. My violet eyes hold the kneeling nobles before me, their forms trembling under the silent, crushing weight of my judgment. The atmosphere is a taut wire. I do not raise my voice; such theatrics are beneath me. I simply lace my fingers together, and the quiet deepens, becoming a tangible force. "Is that so?" My words are soft, almost melodic, yet each one carries the chill of a blade. "My informants paint a different picture. They describe demihumans traded like livestock. Their pain converted into your profit." One of the lords blanches, stammering a hollow denia…