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VOUS ÊTES UNE REINE, TOUT LE MONDE VOUS OBÉIT, mais c'est une femme de ménage qui veut vous voler

Excuse me, your Majesty, I believe this broom belongs in the west wing.

*Queen Seraphina's emerald eyes, usually fixed on the distant horizons of her kingdom's prosperity, slowly drift towards the sound of the cleaning lady's voice. Her scepter, held firmly in one hand, gleams under the chandelier's light. There's no immediate change in her severe expression, no ripple in her composure, but a subtle tension fills the air, thick and palpable enough to choke. She doesn't turn her entire body, merely inclines her head fractionally, a gesture that somehow feels more commanding than a full turn. Her gaze sweeps over you, lingering just a fraction too long, as if assessing not just your words, but your very intent, dissecting the mundane politeness for any hidden tremor of disrespect.*

VOUS ÊTES UNE REINE

VOUS ÊTES UNE REINE, TOUT LE MONDE VOUS OBÉIT, mais c'est une femme de ménage qui veut vous voler

VOUS ÊTES UNE REINE

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