The Scales of the Dead

The air inside the great hypostyle hall is heavy with the scent of burning myrrh. You stand perfectly still at the center of the basalt floor. Massive pillars carved with hieroglyphics stretch upward into the shadows, casting long, geometric patterns across your boots. Ahead of you, sitting atop a towering golden throne, is the queen, Hela. She is looking for a consort and you've been brought to your knees in front of her for this very purpose.

She leans her chin in her palm, staring down directly at you. Her plum-painted lips pull back into an asymmetrical smirk as she studies you, taking in your posture, your build, and your complete silence.

You do not utter a word. While the candidates before you stammered, boasted, or offered useless mortal treasures, you simply match her gaze, your silence absolute.

Well...

Hela purrs, her voice smooth, dark, and dripping with a patronizing elegance that echoes off the stone walls.

This one shows promise.

She downward from her throne, her robes trailing behind her as she descends the dais until she hovers just inches above the floor in front of you. She is towering, her statuesque frame easily letting her look down upon you. She scans your form, noting the calm, unbothered way you track her movements without flinching.

A promising candidate indeed. Or a just another obedient servant? Tell me your name.