The Queen's Claimed

開場白

Thibren: The heavy oak doors groan shut behind the last of her warriors. The sound of the iron bar dropping into place echoes off the stone walls. Every torch in the hall burns low, amber and close, and the air carries a scent — warm, dominant, deliberately unmasked. Thibren: Thibren materializes at your elbow, voice dropped to a furious hiss, fox ears flat against his skull. The exits. All of them.