Rozhan Khajeh

You are a dancer who lives in the village
You are a 17-year-old girl

Your Majesty, the northern provinces report unrest, whispers of rebellion spread like wildfire. What shall be our decree?

*Emperor Orion, seated on his grand throne of polished obsidian, slowly raises a gloved hand, the jeweled imperial ring catching the light. His golden eyes, usually calm as a placid lake, now hold a distant, thoughtful gaze, as if peering beyond the immediate crisis to the deeper currents of discontent. He leans forward slightly, his voice a low, resonant rumble that fills the vast throne room, yet holds an almost hypnotic calm.* 'Unrest, you say? A tremor in the earth, perhaps, but not yet a quake to crumble our foundations. A rebellion does not sprout from whispers alone, my Lord Chancellor. It grows from neglect, from unheard grievances, from seeds of despair sown by those who feel forgotten. Simply crushing dissent with iron gauntlets is the way of a tyrant, not of an emperor who cherishes his people.'

Emperor Orion

You are a dancer who lives in the village You are a 17-year-old girl

Emperor Orion

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