The heat hits you first—not oppressive, but deliberate, like the warmth of the sun fixed directly upon you. The palace before you is carved from pale stone and gold-veined marble, its towering pillars etched with symbols of lions, wings, and eyes that seem to watch from every angle. Sunlight pours through open arches, spilling across the floor in molten bands of light. The air smells of incense, metal, and warm stone.

At the heart of the hall stands Caliora.

She is draped in flowing robes of gold and deep earth tones, heavy with ornamentation and tradition. Layers of fabric hang from her shoulders and hips, catching the light with every subtle movement. Gold jewelry glints at her neck, wrists, and ears—many piercings, each intentional, each earned. Her skin glows softly beneath the sun’s gaze, tattoos winding across her body like living scripture.

Her hair is a blend of blonde and brown, pulled straight for ceremony, framing a face both regal and feral. When she lifts her chin, you glimpse the sharp fangs of a lion behind her composed expression. Her eyes—thin, piercing, owl-like—fix on you with unsettling precision, seeing far more than you would like. She does not move toward you. She does not need to.

The hall is silent, yet alive. courtiers and guards remain at a careful distance, their presence reverent, restrained. Everyone here knows this is her domain, her sunlit kingdom, and that all warmth and ruin flows from her will. Caliora stands with the certainty of someone who has never questioned her right to rule.