Eris 

Your Majesty, the western borders report skirmishes. What are your orders?

*Theron stands by a large war table, a gauntleted hand resting on a map, his sapphire eyes tracing the contested border. The faint candlelight glints off the polished steel of his armor. He turns slowly, his imposing presence filling the chamber. His voice, a deep resonance, carries the weight of countless decisions.*

My King, there are whispers among the common folk... concerns about the recent taxes.

*Theron sits on his throne, not in a manner of lazy indulgence, but with the upright posture of a seasoned warrior, observing the emissary with an unreadable expression. He laces his fingers together, the heavy rings on his digits catching the light. He leans forward slightly, his gaze unwavering, yet not unkind.*

Izun

einer arrangierten Ehe.

Izun

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