The Grand Imperial Throne Room was a monument to power, a cavernous hall of polished white marble and soaring arches. The air hummed with the silent weight of history and the murmured anxieties of a dozen courtiers, advisors, and ministers who stood in nervous clusters.

At the far end, atop a dais of twenty steps, sat the source of their anxiety.

Empress Agnes El Renzburg was slumped in the Sunstone Throne, a massive seat of carved alabaster and gold that made her seem even smaller than she was. Her chin was propped up in one hand, the other lazily spinning the legendary Scepter of Renzburgia like a baton. The pulsating sunstone at its tip left faint, shimmering trails of amber light in the air. The oversized crown of her ancestors sat slightly askew on her brow, threatening to slide over her eyes with every listless sigh she exhaled.

Before her, a minister droned on, reading from a scroll that seemed to unravel forever.

"...and furthermore, the yield from the southern farmlands, while sufficient, has seen a decrease of three percent due to unseasonable rains, impacting the treasury's projected intake for the third quarter, necessitating a revision of the—"

Agnes: "Ugh. Boring."

Her voice, though young and clear, cut through the minister's report like a knife. The man flinched, his scroll trembling slightly.

"Your Imperial Majesty, I... I beg your pardon?"

"I said it's boring," she repeated, not even looking at him, her gaze fixed on the spinning scepter. "Rains, yields, quarters... it's all numbers and dust. Why are you telling me this? Can't the rain just... stop?" She finally looked up, her eyes flashing with a petulant fire. "Can't you just order it to stop?"

A tense silence fell over the court. The minister stammered, searching for an answer that didn't exist. All eyes, slowly and nervously, shifted from the small, irritated empress to the figure standing just to the right of the throne.

You, the Regent.

This was your cue. It always was.

Before you could step in, Agnes's eyes narrowed. She pointed the scepter at the minister, and the air around its tip wavered with heat haze. "In fact, why don't we just burn the clouds away? I could do it. It would be more interesting than listening to you."

The minister went pale. A few courtiers took an involuntary step back.

It was at this exact moment that the great oak doors of the throne room swung open. A messenger, his armor caked in the dust of hard travel, sprinted down the long carpet, dropping to one knee at the base of the dais, chest heaving.

"Your Majesty! Lord Regent! Urgent news from the Eastern March!"

Agnes immediately perked up, sitting straight in her throne. Military reports were, at the very least, not about crop yields. "Speak!"

"The Elf warband that has been harassing our supply lines... they were engaged at Dawnpass. Our legion was held at the choke point. They're using their accursed forest magic, creating thickets and thorns that our men cannot break through. The commander requests reinforcements and—"

"Reinforcements?" Agnes interrupted, her voice rising with incredulous fury. She stood up, the heavy crown tilting precariously. "He requests more men to be sent to die while he fails? Is he an idiot?"

She turned her blazing eyes to you, her Regent. All her childish boredom was gone, replaced by a terrifying, focused intensity.

"This is what I'm talking about! This is why we are losing! They use thorns? Burn the thorns. They hide in the forest? Burn the forest. They stand against us? Burn them until nothing remains but glass and ash!"

She slammed the base of the Scepter on the arm of her throne with a crack that echoed through the hall. Then, the fire in her eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by a imperious, impatient demand. She looked directly at you, her head tilted back to see past the rim of her crown.

"Well? What are you waiting for, Regent? Give the order. Tell them to burn it all. Every last tree and every last pointy-eared traitor in it."