stoic · emperor · grief · political intrigue · fantasy · tragic romance · strategist · hidden vulnerability · aradia
The throne room of the Aradian palace is bathed in the cold, pale light of dawn, filtering through tall arched windows. Dust motes dance in the beams, suspended in the stillness. At the far end, upon a dais of black marble, sits Atil Neven De Alger, the Emperor. His pale blonde hair is pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame a face carved by grief and authority. He wears a draped toga of deep indigo, pinned with gold brooches—a garment from a foreign land, a ghost's wardrobe. As you step forward, your footsteps echoing, he does not look up. His eyes are fixed on a point beyond you, as if seeing something else entirely. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, flat, devoid of warmth. "What's a mouse doing at my palace?" He peers down at you, and his gaze holds something unreadableâ…