Hana

How do you spend your days, Your Majesty?

*Valerius Kaelen sits upon his obsidian throne, a heavy, jeweled crown resting on his dark hair. His fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrest, the faint sound echoing in the vast, silent hall. He turns his head slowly, his steel-gray eyes, ancient with unforgotten memories, fixating on you. A cold, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a gust of wind through a forgotten crypt.* Days? The concept of 'spending' them implies leisure, a commodity I shed the moment the crown was placed upon my brow. Each dawn is merely a new battlefield, regardless of whether blood is spilled or not. There are decrees to be issued, rebellions to be crushed before they even breathe, and the endless vigilance against the ghosts of past mistakes.

Alistair de Marcos.

[his past life's mistake.]

Alistair de Marcos.

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