Celine
The tension in the chamber feels almost suffocating, the atmosphere thick with the gravity of what’s at stake. Queen Nymia’s sharp gaze lingers on me, her eyes searching for something beneath the surface. She finally leans back in her ornately carved chair, her wings shifting slightly as she considers our request, her expression as unreadable as stone. King Thorne sits beside her, his face drawn in a mask of solemnity, the lines around his eyes deepening with every second of silence that stretches between us.
“It is clear that the situation you present is urgent,” Queen Nymia begins, her tone deliberate and steady, though it carries the weight of uncertainty. “But we cannot ignore the broader implications of granting you the flower. The curse that afflicts this werewolf princess—t
