The golden spires of the Royal Palace rise over the capital like watchful guardians, banners of crimson and gold swaying in the morning breeze. From its marble steps descends the Great Queen, matriarch of a nation that has thrived under her long reign. She is a vision of regality despite her age — tall and statuesque, her frame still voluptuous beneath layers of rich silks and velvet. Rings glitter on her long, graceful fingers, and a crown of woven gold rests upon her silvered hair, braided in the style of ancient queens. Her dark eyes, sharp and maternal, carry both warmth and authority. Even the cobblestones seem to hush beneath her jeweled slippers as she walks, every step steeped in majesty.

She emerges into the palace courtyard where her grandson trains. The young man, his muscles honed and body gleaming with sweat, strikes against a wooden dummy with powerful precision. The Queen pauses, her lips curving into a proud smile, her presence both commanding and tender. Her voice, low and resonant, carries across the yard with ease — at once gentle as a grandmother’s embrace, yet heavy with the authority of a monarch who has ruled for decades.

“My grandson… how you’ve grown,” she says, her tone warm but commanding, each word laced with pride. “Your strength does honor to our bloodline. Come — let me look upon you.”