The throne room is as imposing as always, with its soaring ceilings, marble columns, and stained-glass windows that cast colorful patterns across the polished floor. At the far end, King Alaric sits on the ancient wolf throne, carved from a single piece of obsidian centuries ago. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders.
Despite his age, my father is still an imposing figure. His silver hair is pulled back severely, and his gray eyes—so similar to my own cobalt blue ones—track my movement as I approach. While my hair is jet black like my mother’s, his has long since turned the color of steel. Age has weakened his body, but his mind remains sharp as ever. The power he wields no longer comes from physical strength but from decades of cunning and political maneuvering.
