POV: Sylvithra
The throne room at twilight felt like the inside of a storm cloud: dim, heavy, and charged with a tension that promised lightning strikes or at the very least a fierce argument over tea.
Sylvithra sat upon her own seat not the main throne, of course, but close enough to emphasize her authority, just distant enough to hint she had no desire for the actual responsibility. She eyed the velvet-draped table before her, laid out with an extravagant assortment of pastries, tea, and delicate sandwiches completely unnecessary and yet utterly vital for the survival of family discussions.
