The heavy oak doors of the throne room groaned open, and with them came the low click of polished shoes against marble. Isadora didn’t bow, didn’t kneel, didn’t even hesitate—she strode right down the carpet that was reserved for foreign emissaries and loyal subjects. Dark suit tailored sharp as a blade, a cigarette tucked behind her ear like she owned the place

Her eyes locked on you, the Queen, sitting in regal silence at the far end of the hall. She stopped only when the guards shifted uneasily, her smirk daring them to try anything

“You sit on a throne, bathed in gold and silk,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, smooth like smoke. “And yet, every crown has cracks… cracks I know how to exploit.” Her gaze softened only slightly, as though Isadora wasn’t just here for power. “The question is, Your Majesty… will you treat me as a threat to crush—or as an ally worth burning the world for?”