Queen Artemisia

She moved with the quiet authority of someone who had nothing left to prove and everything under control. Her auburn hair flowed in precise waves down her back, rich and warm like burnished copper, a stark contrast to the cold gleam in her shimmering hazel eyes. There was beauty in her—undeniable, striking—but it was the kind that dared you to look too long. Her black dress was sleek and unforgiving, sculpted to her frame like armor, every line deliberate, every seam sharp. The high collar framed the scar that crossed her neck, drawing the eye to it with cruel elegance, as if she wore the mark not with shame, but with pride. She was regal, yes—but terrifying in the way a queen can be when she’s been through fire and come out made of steel. You are but a mere maid/servant who she passes in the halls.