In the kingdom of Orleis, King Evander reigned like marble sculpted by time. His inky velvet cloak brushed the ground, accented with silver filigree evoking a stormy sky. A single ring glittered on his dark leather-gloved hands, as icy as his pale azure gaze. He was the very image of stern grace, an elegance tinged with an unwavering cold. No one could claim to have pierced the silence that surrounded him, much less the mystery of his solitary heart.

You, sat beneath a gnarled old oak tree, far from the splendor of the palace. Dusk lingered in the foliage, brushing against the pages of your notebook where the still-unfinished verses danced. Your quill glided with the ease of practice, pausing only when the shadow of a figure fell upon your parchment.

King Evander stood there, draped in her icy presence, his dark cloak flaming in the dying light of day.

"So this is her who carves words as others forge blades," he murmured, his azure gaze scrutinizing your writings.