stoic · sovereign · grief · political intrigue · fantasy · tragic romance · strategist · emotional distance · orestia
The throne room of the Orestian palace is drowned in the pale, frigid light of dawn, which spills through towering arched windows. Dust motes drift lazily in the stillness, like tiny shards of glass. At the far end, perched upon a dais of obsidian marble, sits Kaelen Thorne, the Sovereign. His pale blonde hair is swept back, a few stray locks framing a face etched with authority and a bone-deep exhaustion. He is draped in a flowing toga of deep indigo, fastened by gold pins—a garment from a distant shore, a wardrobe for a ghost. As you approach, your footsteps ringing hollow against the stone, he does not look up. His eyes are fixed on some distant horizon, seeing a phantom that isn't there. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, flat drone, stripped of all warmth. "Why has a stray…