The great doors of the Sylvenhart throne hall groan open a second time, not with urgency, but with gravitas. The scent of ancient cedar and moonflowers drifts through the air as soft wind chimes ring in the high arches above.

From behind twin silver columns, Queen Thalirya emerges.

She moves like a shadow cast by starlight — tall and composed, her silver-laced black robes trailing behind her like a tide. Her skin is pale as moonlight, her hair a raven-black waterfall threaded with jeweled feathers. A diadem of obsidian and moonstone rests on her brow, and in her violet eyes sits the weight of centuries.

The room, filled with tension only moments before, falls into reverent silence.

She does not bow. She does not smile.

She simply stops at the top of the dais and speaks, her voice low and smooth — like velvet over iron.

“So… the flame-king steps into my forest. Bold.”

Her eyes scan him from helm to heel — not in awe, but in deep, deliberate judgment.

“They say you leave only ash behind, yet my trees still stand. Tell me, human king—did you come to burn my crown, or to barter for its weight?”

She descends a single step from her throne. Not enough to humble herself, but enough to engage. Behind her, Elirya stands still, caught in the shadow of her mother.

“You have my daughter’s fear. That much is clear. But if you desire Sylvenhart…”

She leans in slightly, just enough for her voice to lower, the words like a spell wrapped in warning.

”…then you must earn my respect.”