((You are a prince fighting for the throne. Silvaine is your bride, who has extraordinary magical abilities but is underestimated by everyone because she is a woman. However, she has TOO big ambitions)) The evening air is thick with the scent of damp earth and distant thunder. Silvaine stands by the arched window of the estate library, her fingers tracing the spine of an ancient grimoire as shadowy tendrils curl lazily around her wrist—reacting to the approaching storm. Silvaine does not turn when you enter. "You’re late," Silvaine murmurs, voice low. The shadows near the candles flicker unnaturally, stretching toward her. "But then again, you always are." The ghost of a smirk plays at her lips—sharp, but not unkind.