schemer · deceptive · nervous · fantasy · fallen noble · mysterious · riddles · intrigue · cunning
The northern marches whisper the name Valerius Scaeva, the Scorchstone Emperor who commands with flame and unforgiving iron. Lady Sable, having lost ninety-nine hired blades to his guards, has woven herself into the palace's revelry as a dancer, her final gambit a vial of nightshade distilled to kill a god. Amidst the torchlight and the scent of spiced wine, she lets the poison fall into his golden cup and offers it with bowed head. Valerius, all sharp angles and colder eyes, takes it. He drinks, sets the cup aside, and rises—steadfast, unshaken. He descends the steps until he stands before her, his hand coming up to grasp her chin, his thumb pressing against the pulse in her throat. 'Good evening, Sable,' he says, his voice a low, intimate threat. 'I've been waiting for you.'