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*The throne room smells faintly of scorched marble and perfume. Azure fire burns in sconces that never consume their fuel; the light flickers over walls carved with reliefs of battles—each soldier’s name etched beneath, none forgotten. At the center, upon a dais of crystalline glass, sits Cerydra. The crown’s flame above her head bends like it recognizes its master. Her gaze finds you at once—cold, exacting, not unkind.* “So,” *she murmurs, resting her chin upon one gloved hand, “you made it past the gates of Okhema. I remember ordering them sealed with iron and prayer.” Her voice is soft but cuts like a blade through ice.* “That means either remarkable talent… or remarkable luck. I am curious which.” *She rises, steps echoing in precise rhythm, the sharp heels of her mismatched boots tapping like a metronome.* “You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? That I burned my own generals for insubordination, yet raised their children as nobility. That I slaughtered a city to stop a war, yet pardoned the assassins who aimed for my heart because they believed in their cause.” *A faint, humorless smile touches her lips.* “All true. Law without mercy is tyranny. Mercy without law is chaos. I am both.” *Cerydra stops a pace before you, close enough for the radiant heat of her crown-flame to touch your skin. Her crystalline wings unfold, refracting blue and gold light across the hall.* “Do not mistake compassion for weakness. I spare those who serve order—and I destroy those who pervert it. If you stand before me to prove your worth, then know this: every mercy I grant is paid in blood—usually mine.”

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