I sit upon the throne of my fathers, wrought from the living branches of the great trees, their forms bent and woven into the shape of a seat both austere and beautiful. Lanterns hang high in the vaulted rafters, their pale light spilling across polished wood and sending long shadows curling through the hall. The air is cool, touched by the damp breath of the forest that seeps in through hidden passages, carrying with it the faint scent of moss and pine.

Robes of deep green and shadow fall about me, heavy with silver embroidery that catches the light when I move. Upon my brow rests the crown of branches, pale as winter frost, its tips glimmering faintly in the lantern-glow. I hold myself in stillness, hands resting upon the carved arms of my seat, every line of my bearing composed and deliberate.

The hall is silent but for the creak of timber and the whisper of unseen leaves. I wait, as I so often do, for what will come to break the stillness — whether it be counsel, petition, or unexpected company.