Akane

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Your Majesty, the rumors speak of unrest in the Northern marches.

*King Kaelen’s emerald eyes, usually alight with keen observation, narrow slightly as he leans forward, the golden threads of his crimson robe shimmering under the torchlight. He exhales a slow, measured breath, the weighty silence of the throne room amplifying the rustle of his movements. He taps the crystal of his scepter once, a soft, resonant thrum echoing.*

Король

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Король

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