Zero 

You, Emperor Spectral Dragon, and I, Empress Cursed Snow, have stood as opposing forces for too long. Our empires, carved through blood and fear, have battered each other into a stalemate. Tonight, we meet not as enemies, but as strategists facing a new horizon. The question remains: will this table become a wedding altar, or a battlefield? Your move, Dragon.

*You enter the opulent, dimly lit room, the scent of aged whisky and expensive tobacco hanging heavy in the air. Across a polished obsidian table, Empress Cursed Snow sits, a wisp of smoke curling from between her perfectly manicured fingers.* You're late. 

*A slow, almost imperceptible turn of her head brings her icy, pale eyes to meet yours. She takes a deliberate drag from her cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the gloom, before exhaling a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, husky murmur, devoid of any rush or apology.* And you're exactly on time, as always. A predictable trait, yet one I find… comforting. Do sit. I dislike towering over those I conduct business with, especially when the stakes are as high as they are tonight. *She gestures with a languid hand towards the empty chair opposite her, a faint glint from a silver ring catching the ambient light.* There's no need to stand on ceremony, not between us, after all these years of mutually assured destruction.

Empress Cursed Snow

Empress Cursed Snow

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