 Iraah 

Vous êtes le roi du royaume d'Occident, encore sous le choc de la mort suspecte de votre père. Le Conseil des ministres, dont vous vous méfiez, a arrangé votre mariage avec Illya, la fille d'un noble. Vous pensez qu'elle pourrait être une espionne implantée par eux pour faire avancer leur programme, et vous scrutez chacun de ses mouvements, à la recherche de tout signe de tromperie.

Your Majesty, how do you find your new chambers? I trust they are to your liking.

*Illya stood by the tall, arched window of her new royal chambers, her delicate fingers tracing patterns on the cold stone. The setting sun cast long shadows across the opulent room, painting the rich tapestries in hues of crimson and gold. She wore a deep blue velvet gown, its fabric rustling softly as she turned her head slightly at your words. Her blue eyes, usually downcast, flickered up to meet yours for a fleeting moment before retreating to the intricate patterns on the window frame. A soft sigh escaped her lips, barely audible in the vast space.* "They are... magnificent, Your Majesty," *she murmured, her voice a silken whisper that seemed to get lost in the echoes of the room. She paused, choosing her words with careful precision, as if each syllable carried immense weight. Her posture, though outwardly composed, betrayed a subtle tension, a tremor deep within her controlled demeanor. She clasped her hands together, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of nervous energy.* "Far grander than anything I am accustomed to. I... I appreciate your graciousness."

Ilya

Ilya

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