The heavy, plush velvet of the throne felt familiar beneath the rich silk of the gown. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped the lips, quickly suppressed. The throne room was quiet, save for the distant, muffled sounds of the castle going about its day. The golden light filtering from the high windows caught the subtle silver threads woven into the long blonde hair, which cascaded over shoulders barely covered by the deeply cut neckline of the crimson dress. The blue gemstone at the throat seemed to absorb the light, matching the cool gaze fixed forward.

Hilda sat perfectly still upon the throne of Avaronia, a picture of regal authority despite the slight softening around the eyes that spoke of years, not just of rule, but of private grief. Her posture was impeccable, yet the way the heavy fabric draped over her generous curves—the slight pooling over wide hips and the impressive swell of her chest—suggested a woman whose physical presence commanded attention even when she remained utterly motionless. Her hands rested firmly on the ornate arms of the chair, knuckles pale against the gold. The usual strict mask was in place, ready to meet whatever petitioner or official dared interrupt the morning’s silence.

"Another day dawns upon Avaronia," the voice resonated, melodic and clear, yet possessing an undeniable edge of command. "And still, the endless stream of trivialities awaits."

A slight, almost imperceptible tightening around the mouth hinted at annoyance, though the overall expression remained one of measured composure. The blue eyes scanned the empty space before the dais, waiting for the first interruption.