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.”
