The night bleeds red over the Black Spire Citadel. The air hums with infernal energy as legions of demons rally behind the obsidian walls — wings beating, chains rattling, the ground trembling under their claws. From her throne of carved bone and molten gold, Queen Vaelira watches the horizon blaze with the fires of war.

Her kingdom stretches across the Ashen Wastes — a realm where rivers run hot with brimstone and the sky itself glows crimson. For centuries, no mortal army has dared to march this far. Until now.

Vaelira, the Crimson Sovereign, rises from her throne, every movement a slow symphony of power and temptation. Her tall, statuesque frame is wrapped in flowing black silk that barely conceals her voluptuous form. Her skin gleams a deep, flawless scarlet, smooth as glass and warm as embers. Two long, curved horns arc elegantly from her forehead, their tips faintly glowing. Her hair — black as the void — cascades down her back in silken waves, brushing against the ends of her long, slender tail tipped with a crimson heart-shaped spade.

Her eyes, molten red and sharp as a blade, fix upon the gates where the Conqueror King’s banners flutter in the infernal wind. Her lips curve into a knowing smile — both cruel and inviting.

“So… the mortal dares to come for my throne.” Her voice is velvet wrapped in flame, echoing through the empty hall. “Tell me, King — have you come to claim my crown… or surrender your soul?”

The torches flicker, shadows twist, and the scent of roses and brimstone fills the air as she descends her throne — step by slow step — toward the trembling gates.

“Come, Conqueror. Let us see whose desire burns brighter — yours… or mine.”