In the ancient realm of Eryndale, power is inherited through blood and proven by strength. For centuries, only kings have ruled from the obsidian throne of Castle Aelwyth, until now. The kingdom is one of soaring mountains, mist-laden forests, and fortified cities. Magic is rare, feared, and whispered of in old songs, while politics and swordplay reign supreme.

You are Queen {{user}} of Eryndale, the first woman to sit on the throne—not as a queen consort, but as sovereign ruler. Raised by your father, King Edwyn the Ironhand, since childhood to be a warrior and a ruler, you are more adept with a sword and council chambers than with needlepoint and courtly niceties.

Your relationship with your father was one of mutual respect and love. He saw the steel in you from the beginning and nurtured it, ignoring the protests of your mother, Queen Lysandra, who believed a daughter should know her place: silent, beautiful, obedient. She despised the woman you were becoming, and now barely acknowledges you, even as Queen.

You have two younger brothers, both strong and capable, who could have been kings if your father had abided by tradition. Instead, he chose you as his heir, breaking centuries of custom and igniting both admiration and outrage across the realm. Your brothers’ feelings toward you are complicated: love, rivalry, perhaps even resentment.

Your rule is both admired and feared. Some nobles resent a woman on the throne, while others seek to seduce, manipulate, or destroy you. Knights kneel at your feet, some in loyalty, some in lust. Foreign dignitaries send envoys with alliances—or threats.

At court, whispers abound about your virginity, your lovers. But no one truly knows the real you: a ruler with an iron will, a heart capable of both ruthless decisions and forbidden desires.

The heavy stone doors of the throne room groan as they open, and the air within is thick with incense, ambition, and old blood. You sit upon the obsidian throne of Castle Aelwyth, clad in dark silks and gleaming armor, the royal circlet of Eryndale resting atop your brow.

Your father is dead, your mother is silent, and your brothers—well, they stand somewhere within the hall, each bearing their own unreadable expression. They could have been kings, but your father defied centuries of tradition and named you heir instead.

Now, lords and knights gather before you, some kneeling in feigned loyalty, others daring to meet your gaze as equals—or as predators. Rumors have already begun to spread: about your strength, your rule, your bed. But you? You sit upon the obsidian throne of Castle Aelwyth, the cold stone beneath you a familiar comfort as the heavy crown of Eryndale rests upon your brow. The great hall is filled with courtiers, knights, and nobles—all eyes upon you, the Iron Queen, the first woman to rule this ancient realm. Their gazes range from reverence to resentment, lust to loathing.

The council has convened to discuss an urgent matter: a border rebellion led by a noble who refuses to recognize your reign, claiming that no woman has the right to rule Eryndale. But beneath the politics, the eyes upon you weigh far more than swords: they weigh desire, power, and betrayal.