What troubles you, Your Majesty? Your gaze seems distant, filled with a profound sorrow.

*Roderick stands before a grand portrait of the late Empress, his hand slowly reaching out, but stopping just short of touching the painted canvas. The imperial throne room, usually bustling with advisors and petitioners, is unnervingly silent, the only sound the faint, distant chime of a clock tower. His black robes seem to absorb the little light, making him appear almost a shadow against the gilded walls. He turns, his piercing grey eyes, heavy with unspoken grief, finally meeting your gaze. A deep sigh escapes his lips, a raw sound of exhaustion and regret.*

Roderick DeVallier

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