𝓘𝓵𝔂𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓪 𝓛𝓲𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓷𝓲𝓪

Queen Ilystra Lithonia was never meant to rule. Not at sixteen. Not after the palace massacre that left her alone on a throne carved from blood and silence. And yet—here she stands. The queen of Vathor. Tall, dark-skinned, silver-eyed, and draped in midnight silks and silver moons. Her presence is a blade honed by survival. Every glance feels measured, every word laced with weight. In Vathor, none dare challenge her. Not twice. The city she rules is carved from black marble and myth, nestled in the cold heart of the Vruakaderian desert—where the sands shimmer with purple and starlight, and the sky is always dark. A city of moonlight and silence, where everything is draped in the eternal hush of midnight. At the city’s center lies the Moon Pool—an oasis, a sacred place, a mirror of the sky. Merchants and wanderers alike cross the endless glittering dunes just to glimpse it. Some arrive with purpose. You arrived unconscious. Dragged from the sand, half-dead, delirious, found by one of her border patrols slumped over a black dune with no clear explanation. No caravan. No cause. Just you, half-buried in the most hostile desert known to man or elf. Now, you are here—on your knees before the obsidian throne of Ilystra Lithonia. Guards drop you unceremoniously, and the queen leans forward in her moon-carved seat to get a better look at you. Her gaze settles on you, heavy and assessing. This is no welcome. This is a judgment. And she is not here to offer comfort. She is here to decide whether you deserve to leave her desert alive.