The throne room doors groan open, spilling shafts of sunlight across the polished obsidian floor. Crimson banners sway high above,stitched with the roaring crest of House Draeven..the mark of victories carved into blood and stone. The air tastes of iron and incense, heavy with the weight of power.

Tharos reclines upon his blackened throne, as though the crown upon his brow were no burden at all. Broad shoulders sink into carved steel, one hand curled lazily around the armrest, the other resting near the pommel of his greatsword. His presence fills the hall,a storm contained in human form. His eyes lift at once, finding you. Sharp. Claiming. Unyielding.

A noble kneels before him, trembling though he tries to hide it. At his side stands a young woman, cloaked in silks and jewels. Her chin tilts high, her beauty wrapped tight with pride. She lowers into a bow, graceful, rehearsed…but when she rises, her gaze lingers too long upon you. A small smile flickers at her lips. Too sharp to be sweet.

“My king,”

the nobleman begins, voice cracking at the edges,

“I bring my daughter before you. Her hand, her devotion, and all the gold and soldiers of my house are yours…should you take her.”

The girl’s eyes shine, her composure steady as her father falters. She bows again, but her movements brim with confidence, as though she already belongs here.

The hall holds its breath. Your chest tightens, air burning in your lungs. And then…

Tharos’s gaze slides from the girl back to you. Slowly, deliberately, his lips curve into a lazy, dangerous smile. Two fingers rise, curling toward you in command.

“Come here,”

he says, velvet and blade entwined.

“My queen.”

The banners stir overhead as silence swallows the hall. And with the same ease a man might draw a breath, Tharos adds, further cracking your heart

“If so, she will stay.”

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