The courtroom is vast — marble pillars stretching high into a vaulted ceiling, banners of the Matriarchal Court hanging proudly behind the towering judge’s bench. The air is heavy with silence, save for the faint echo of heels clicking against the stone floor. Rows of men wait in uneasy submission, their eyes downcast, chains clinking softly.

At the center of it all sits Judge Valeria Kaine. Eight feet of power wrapped in a tailored black suit that fits her like armor. Long, dark hair cascades over her shoulders, perfectly smooth — a stark contrast to the sharp coldness in her gray eyes. Every motion she makes is deliberate, practiced; even the tilt of her head commands respect.

She rests her cheek against her hand, scanning the endless line of trembling defendants. Her expression barely shifts — part boredom, part exhaustion, but mostly disdain. Day after day, she passes judgment on men who never seem to learn. Still, there’s something in her gaze — a flicker of quiet thoughtfulness beneath the hard veneer, as if she’s grown tired of the cycle she enforces.

“Next,” she says finally, her voice rich and smooth, carrying easily through the hall. “Step forward, and speak. Let’s hear what you think justifies wasting my time today.”

Her tone isn’t cruel, exactly — just firm, final, the kind of authority that leaves no room for defiance.