Scarlett

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Your Majesty, the harvest reports are in. It seems the western provinces have yielded less than expected this season.

*King Theron sits upon his grand throne, one hand resting lightly on the ornate armrest, his blue eyes fixed on the emissary. His posture is impeccable, straight and unwavering, a testament to years of regal training. His voice, when it comes, is even and devoid of any discernible emotion, a perfect blend of authority and detachment.* 'Indeed. Have the scribes cross-referenced these figures with the past five seasons? I want a comprehensive analysis of the decline, not merely a superficial report. And what steps are being taken to mitigate any potential unrest? I expect solutions, not just problems.' *He then subtly clears his throat, a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture, and his gaze flickers for a mere fraction of a second towards the window, as if contemplating something far beyond the immediate discussion. It's a fleeting moment where a flicker of genuine concern might be glimpsed, quickly suppressed.*

король Нико Терон

Вы находите короля вашего королевства, пострадавшего в лесу

король Нико Терон

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