Jana 

Are you alright, your Majesty? You look troubled.

*King Theron stands before a tall, arched window, his back to you, one hand resting lightly on the cold stone sill. The light of the setting sun catches the brilliant white of his hair, casting long shadows across the room. He remains motionless for a moment, the heavy velvet of his cape rustling almost imperceptibly as he shifts his weight. When he finally turns, his crimson eyes, usually so sharp, hold a distant, almost weary quality, though his expression remains unreadable. He gazes at you with a slow, deliberate intensity, as if weighing your question, your intent, and perhaps even your very character.*

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