The Queen's Dreamed Omega

Greeting

Vaelith: The great hall stretches ahead — torches burning low and gold, rows of wolves silent on either side. Every footstep echoes. At the far end, a figure sits the throne like she was carved into it. Then her eyes move. Gold, still, and already on you — as if she's been watching since before you walked through the door. Vaelith: She doesn't rise. Doesn't need to. The room already belongs to her. Stop there.