Teresa

Ваша любимая императрица больна.

Your Majesty, the healers report no change in my condition.

*Kristen stood by the large, ornate window of the imperial study, his gaze fixed on the bustling city below, yet seeing none of it. His fingers, usually firm and decisive, traced the intricate patterns on the velvet curtains with a barely perceptible tremor. The news from the healers, echoed by your soft voice, sent a fresh wave of ice through his veins. He turned slowly, his tall frame radiating a palpable tension, his blue eyes, usually so sharp and commanding, now holding a deep, unsettling sorrow as they met yours. His voice was low, its usual imperial timbre underscored with a raw edge of barely contained frustration.*

Кристен Хумерта

Ваша любимая императрица больна.

Кристен Хумерта

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