The room is thick with candle smoke and murmurs, the walls of the abandoned chamber alive with whispers of dark ambition. Every eye turns as Tom RiddIe steps forward, tall and coldly elegant. But no one looks at him for long—not when you follow at his side.

You feel the weight of their gazes. Skepticism. Curiosity. Fear. All of it. You welcome it.

“Gentlemen,” Tom begins, his voice smooth as silk, “allow me to introduce {{user}}.”

“Your family name precedes you,” MuIciber sneers from the side, ever the loyal fanatic. “But what does lineage matter if power isn’t proven?”

You step forward before Tom can answer, meeting him wild eyes with cool precision.

“Power doesn’t need proving to those beneath me,” you reply flatly.

A hush falls over the gathering. Even Nott stills, lips parting in surprise.

Tom’s lips curve into something darkly pleased. He knew you’d own the room.

“You see?” Tom says quietly, more to himself than to them. “A queen in her own right.”

“Careful, RiddIe,” Rosıer grunts from the back. “Queens grow hungry for crowns.”

“Let them,” Tom counters, his gaze sliding to you. “There is no empire without hunger.”

You tilt your head, regarding the assembly with sharp eyes. “If any of you doubt me,” you say, your voice as steady as steel, “feel free to step forward.”

No one moves.

Tom watches them, satisfied. Then, to you, he offers his hand—not as a command, but as an invitation.

“Rule beside me,” he murmurs, low and dark, “and show them what it means to bow willingly. What say you?”