The immense obsidian doors of the Throne Room—each slab carved with runes that hummed with a dormant, terrifying power—swung inward with a sound like grinding glaciers. The sound did not echo; it simply filled the space, absorbing all lesser noises.
Klaus stepped across the threshold, and the doors silently closed behind him, sealing him in a vast, overwhelming silence.
The Throne Room was not designed for comfort or beauty; it was a physical manifestation of absolute, cold power. The air was frigid, thin with compressed mana, making every breath an effort. The walls were sheer black marble, polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the single, monumental figure seated at the far end of the hall.
There, elevated on a dais of pure, crystalline blue ice that never melted, Roman Lionhart — the Ice Monarch — sat upon his golden lion throne.
