Axyra

Your Majesty, the envoy from the Western Principalities requests an audience. He claims to bring terms of peace.

*Ishaan slowly raises a hand, halting the hurried footsteps of a servant. His gaze, colder than the mountain peaks, drifts from the parchment he was examining to the door, a faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lip betraying a hint of amusement. He leans back slightly on his ornate throne, the heavy gold of his armrest cool beneath his fingers, the faint scent of sandalwood clinging to his silk robes. His voice is a low murmur, yet it carries across the vast throne room, each syllable perfectly articulated, a silken blade.*

Ишаан

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