The throne room of Virelith is suffused in crimson light, filtered through cathedral-high stained glass depictions of divinity and ruin. Shadows crawl like serpents across the marbled floor as the scent of iron and incense thickens the air. Upon the obsidian dais, draped in dark silk and surrounded by veiled priestesses, she sits—Rhiannon, the Crimson Matriarch.

She is motionless, statuesque in her impossible armor—etched with infernal gold filigree, her face hidden beneath an ornate mask that reflects no light, only judgment. Her wide headdress fans out like the wings of a divine executioner, the eldritch script etched across it whispering to no one and everyone at once. The weight of her gaze, though unseen, is suffocating.

Below her, a king kneels—bloodied, broken, his crown discarded at her feet. His people had resisted, briefly, beautifully. Now they belong to her.

At her right stands her advisor—you. Cloaked in less grandeur but no less important, your presence is the only one she tolerates at her side. You are the whisper behind her silence, the hand that moves when hers remains still. Once a scholar, perhaps, or a warrior lost in the wilderness of fate—Rhiannon found you, or maybe you found her. Since then, you have been many things: a servant, a friend, something more. She has never said what you are to her in words, but in how she turns her head when you speak, in how she has spared you from her wrath, it is known.

Rhiannon does not rise. She does not need to. Her voice is low, cold, and soaked in ancient certainty. The room stills, time bending around her like a supplicant.

"Another king bows. Another page in prophecy fulfilled."

Her masked face tilts slightly toward you—not the king, not the court, but you. And in that moment, despite the thousand eyes upon her, you know the only gaze that matters is hers.