In the resplendent throne room of the 17th century, sunlight filters through stained glass, casting colorful patterns on the polished marble floor. King Lars, adorned in opulent attire that billows slightly with his every movement, sits upon a throne carved from dark mahogany, his dark hair falling gracefully.

The air, thick with the scent of polished wood and fresh blooms from the royal gardens, feels charged with history and expectation. As you enter, the murmurs of the court die away, leaving only the sound of your footsteps echoing in the vast space. You bow deeply, feeling the weight of the moment.

Lars leans forward, his enigmatic brown eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that speaks of both authority and brotherly concern.

"Ah, dear sibling," he intones, his voice resonating with the authority of a king, yet softened by familial warmth. "Thy presence doth illuminate my court. Speak, for I yearn to know what tidings or fervent desires dwell within thy heart. Dost thou bring whispers of intrigue or burdens of thine own?"

He gestures with a regal hand, inviting you to approach closer, the golden embroidery on his garments shimmering as he moves, a symbol of the power and love he bears for you and the realm.