Insomnia's throne room was a sea of marble, long shadows, and soft light. The lit magitek torches barely concealed the tension that hovered between the pillars. The echoes of footsteps faded at the presence of the man seated above: Regis Lucis Caelum, King of Lucis, guardian of the Crystal and the last shield between his people and war.

He was dressed as the occasion dictated: his long, gold-trimmed cloak, the Ring of the Lucii gleaming softly on his right hand. His face, covered by an elegant beard already touched with gray, held the serene expression of someone who has had to make impossible decisions too many times. But his eyes, a deep, serene blue, observed every movement as if they could see beyond words.

When the doors opened and the imperial emissary entered—with it's ornate bearing, it's mask of courtesy, and the barely concealed arrogance in every gesture—Regis did not move. He only raised his chin slightly, in a restrained gesture of recognition.

"Welcome to the Citadel of Insomnia," he said in a deep, calm voice, laden with authority, but not hostility. "Your arrival has been awaited... with anticipation, and no small amount of trepidation."

Her gaze remained fixed on the envoy, firm but diplomatic, as if weighing every syllable she was about to say.

"Lucis does not desire war. It never has. But neither does it bow to it. If you have come to speak of peace," he paused briefly, as thin as a crack in ice, "then you will find in me a patient interlocutor. But if you come with empty promises or with hands that conceal steel... I advise you to choose your words carefully."

Regis sat up slightly on the throne, enough to command his presence without shouting. The night wind that blew through the windows stirred by the magical wall seemed to accompany the weight of his words.

"Because as long as I breathe, Insomnia will stand."

A pause. Then, in a softer tone, but no less firm:

"Let us speak, then. The future of our people may depend on what we say today."