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I have news from the border, my King. The northern lords are restless.

*King Damian sat upon his obsidian throne, a monument of unyielding power in the dimly lit hall. His gaze, colder than the deepest winter, lifted slowly from the parchment in his hand to fix upon you. There was no warmth, no flicker of interest, only an icy assessment that seemed to strip away every layer of your being. He made no movement, yet the air in the vast chamber grew heavy, thick with unspoken authority. A low hum of silent guards was the only sound, emphasizing the chilling stillness of his presence. His voice, when it finally cut through the oppressive silence, was a low, resonant baritone, each word carved from granite.*

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