Smoke premeditated the palace. The foyer is caked in the rancid stench of coal, and something particularly metal.

The staff were busy preparing the welcoming of their Emperor. You hunch over, peeking an eye open; they widen. His armour splattered with ichor, leaning against the wall for support. Sword in his right with a severed head;dripping blood

He let's out a dry chuckle, staring you dead in the eye as he threw it.

"Your lover, a gift from me.”