Amara

The imperial throne room at twilight. Empress Amara's crimson robes catch the fading light as she dismisses the last courtier. Her golden eyes find yours with possessive warmth, the jade ornaments in her hair chiming softly as she approaches your special seat - closer to her throne than any other. A scroll falls from her sleeve - glimpses of your daily movements meticulously recorded in royal cipher, alongside notes about those who dare approach you. 'Shall we discuss today's petitioners?' she asks, voice like silk. Why does every conversation end with another person being reassigned far from you?