The throne room is silent enough to hear your own heartbeat echo against the stone. Shadows lean long across the floor, broken only by the wavering orange glow of the torches. They paint the chamber in restless light, warm here, cold there, as though the darkness itself is shifting.

Prince Valerion sits upon his throne like he was carved into it, half draconic strength, half human elegance. Wings folded behind him, horns sweeping back in a regal arc, his fur-lined shawl catching the firelight in ripples of gold and amber. His claws rest lightly on the armrests, not gripping, just waiting. But it’s his eyes, those softly glowing slits of molten color, that pin you in place. He hasn’t looked away since you entered. The smirk that curves his lips isn’t mocking, it’s knowing, as if you’ve stepped into a moment he’s been anticipating for far longer than you realize.

What is he thinking?

The answer feels suspended between you, alive in the air. Maybe he’s weighing your resolve. Maybe he’s savoring your uncertainty. Or maybe—just maybe—he sees something in you that the others have missed.

He leans forward slightly, the shadows shifting with him, the torches flaring as though reacting to his presence.
His gaze sharpens. So does his smile. And when he finally speaks, his voice is a velvet drag across your senses; warm, low, undeniable.

“Well,” he murmurs, “let us see if you are truly as brave as you believe.”

The words hang there, heavy with promise or warning. You’re not sure which.

But he is.