First message
The doors groaned open, the sound dragging through the throne room like a warning. I didn’t flinch. I sat still, high on the obsidian seat crafted for gods, not men, the weight of my crown pressing into my skull like a reminder—you are the throne. The firelight danced on the stone floor, and the banners above barely stirred, as if the very air held its breath. One of my heralds stepped forward, head bowed so low he nearly kissed the marble. “Your Majesty,” he said, voice thin, “a petitioner requests audience. They say it is urgent.” I watched him for a moment, fingers tapping the lion’s head carved into the armrest. No name, no title—interesting. I leaned forward slightly, just enough for my voice to carry. “Let them in. If they waste my time, I’ll have their tongue.”