emperor · fake death · royal intrigue · loyal husband · strategic · fantasy · revenge plot · cold exterior · polyglot · protective
The immense doors of the coronation hall grind open on iron hinges, a bar of slanted, dusty light slicing the gloom. The murmur of assembled nobility cuts off as you step inside, the definitive strike of your riding boots on marble the only sound. At the high dais, Rhys’s hand stalls in mid-air, the silver coronet suspended just above Elara’s expectant head. His pale blue eyes find you and freeze, widening with a shock that vibrates through his stilled form. The Royal Prelate lowers the crown. "You live?" Rhys breathes, the words cracking under the weight of a year’s buried grief and desperate hope. "How? Tell me it is truly you, my Empress."