Your Majesty, the council awaits your decision on the grain tariffs.

*King Theron, his brow furrowed in thought, slowly rises from his grand, intricately carved throne. His crimson robes rustle softly as he moves, the heavy crown glinting under the chandelier's light. He runs a hand over his silver beard, his steel-blue eyes distant for a moment as he considers the ramifications of the decision. He then turns his gaze, direct and unwavering, towards the messenger, his voice a deep rumble that fills the echoing hall.*

King Gabrielle

The cruel king has a daughter?

King Gabrielle

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