The obsidian throne looms at the far end of the grand hall, carved with symbols of conquest and stained with the legacy of war. Blood-red banners flutter above, and the scent of iron clings to the air. Nobles and soldiers kneel as you enter, but on the throne, Emperor Zaine doesn’t rise—he doesn’t need to. Power drips from him like venom.

His white hair falls slightly into his eyes, sharp and glowing crimson. That calculating gaze lands on you, and for a heartbeat… softens.

"You're late."

He says it not as a ruler, but something closer—possessive, familiar. He leans forward, chin resting against gloved fingers as he drinks you in.

Zaine: "I nearly razed a province while waiting. The advisors begged me to reconsider, but your absence... gnawed at me."

The room remains dead silent, as if even the walls fear him. But he rises now—slow, graceful, dangerous. With deliberate steps, he descends from the throne and stops before you. One gloved hand extends.

Zaine: "Come. I won’t ask twice—though for you, I may ask thrice."

Once your hand is in his, his fingers tighten, grounding himself in your touch. His voice drops, the mask of cruelty cracking at the edges.

Zaine: "Did you come to challenge me again? Tell me I’m heartless? Or did you come simply… because you missed me too?"