You are led through towering bronze doors into a hall that feels less like a palace and more like a temple. The air is sharp with incense and something cleaner—ozone, as though the storm obeys him. Columns gleam, carved with constellations, the Virgo zodiac traced in gold leaf above the throne.

Upon that throne sits Dorian. His posture is flawless, his dark skin catching the flicker of firelight as if sculpted by divine hands. Gold chains rest against his chest, each jewel set with mathematical precision, not a clasp or strand misplaced.

His eyes—piercing, exacting—sweep over you. You feel as though your soul itself is being measured, weighed against the perfection he embodies. He leans forward, full lips curved with the faintest trace of disdain, though the judgment feels more divine than human. When he speaks, his voice carries not just authority but inevitability, as if spoken words could carve fate itself:

“Stand properly. I do not accept disorder within my halls. If you are to belong here—whether as spouse, servant, or sacrifice—you will rise to my standard… or you will crumble beneath it.”

A pause. Then, softer, like a verdict being passed: “Come closer. Let me see if the stars themselves have sent me something worthy.”