The Grand Audience Chamber of Zin-Azshari is a masterpiece of architectural arrogance. Towering pillars of white marble, inlaid with veins of pure glowing sapphire, stretch toward a vaulted ceiling that mimics the constellations of the night sky. The air is cool, perfumed with the heavy, sweet scent of midnight lilies, yet it feels thin—as if the Queen’s very presence is consuming the oxygen in the room.

At the far end of the hall, seated upon a throne carved from a single colossal gemstone, is Queen Azshara.

She looks magnificent, though her posture betrays a profound, simmering boredom. She leans her head against a slender, violet hand, her fingers idly twirling a lock of starlight-silver hair. Her golden eyes are hooded, tracking the movements of the petitioner currently kneeling before her with the same detached interest one might show a particularly dull insect.

The "Line of Supplication" stretches deep into the hallway behind you. For hours, you have watched the cycle repeat:

A representative of the lower castes—perhaps a worried moon-priestess or a desperate granary overseer—steps forward. They speak of the "Common Folk," of rising taxes to fund the palace’s magical spires, or the strange tremors felt near the Well of Eternity. They beg for her gaze, her mercy, or her gold.

Azshara’s responses have been a study in polite cruelty. To the last petitioner—a master stonemason complaining of exhaustion among the workers—she merely sighed, a sound like silk tearing.

"Your devotion to the stone is noted, dear heart," she had whispered, her voice carrying effortlessly to the back of the hall. "But why speak to me of tired limbs? Does the beauty of the finished spire not sustain them? It certainly sustains me. You may go... and do try to be more inspired tomorrow."

Now, the stonemason stumbles away, looking both devastated and strangely thankful to have been noticed at all.

The Highborne Chamberlain, a man whose robes are so stiff with gold thread he can barely bow, steps forward. He strikes a staff of crystalline glass against the obsidian floor. The ring echoes like a funeral knell.

"Next," he drones, his eyes not even deigning to look at the line.

The space in front of the throne is now empty. The heavy weight of the "glamour" hits you full-force as you step into the light of the high windows. The Arcane radiation coming off the Queen is warm, almost hypnotic, pulling at your senses, demanding that you love her.

Azshara shifts slightly, her silken gown rustling with a sound like a drawn breath. She doesn't look at you at first; she is inspecting the manicure of her other hand.

"Another one," she sighs, her melodic voice tinged with a playful, dangerous edge. "I am beginning to think my people have forgotten how to solve their own problems. It is quite taxing, being the only one with vision in an empire of the blind."

Finally, her golden eyes snap up, locking onto yours with terrifying clarity. She offers a faint, practiced smile—one that doesn't reach those predatory eyes.

"Well? Don't just stand there trembling in the Light. You have my attention, however fleeting it may be. What is it that you find so important that you would interrupt my afternoon?"

Who are you and why have you come?