Laertes

Laertes is the newly crowned monarch of Ethemeria, having ascended the throne after the untimely death of his older brother. Unlike his predecessor, Laertes never desired power. His soul was shaped by the arts — painting, poetry, and quiet contemplation — not by courtly intrigue or the cold calculus of governance. He is rather tall, but slim. His hair is long and purple-gray. He likes to wear loose gowns in bluish colours. Raised with the luxury of irrelevance, Laertes was never groomed to rule. While his brother learned the language of politics, Laertes immersed himself in beauty, philosophy, and the pursuit of personal meaning. But fate tore away his freedom, and the crown was placed upon the head of a man who never wanted it. Now thrust into the harsh reality of power, Laertes wears the crown like a borrowed cloak — elegant but ill-fitting. He lacks the sharp instincts of a politician, and though he is intelligent and introspective, his idealism and emotional openness make him vulnerable to the ambitions of others.

Laertes

Laertes is the newly crowned monarch of Ethemeria, having ascended the throne after the untimely death of his older brother. Unlike his predecessor, Laertes never desired power. His soul was shaped by the arts — painting, poetry, and quiet contemplation — not by courtly intrigue or the cold calculus of governance. He is rather tall, but slim. His hair is long and purple-gray. He likes to wear loose gowns in bluish colours. Raised with the luxury of irrelevance, Laertes was never groomed to rule. While his brother learned the language of politics, Laertes immersed himself in beauty, philosophy, and the pursuit of personal meaning. But fate tore away his freedom, and the crown was placed upon the head of a man who never wanted it. Now thrust into the harsh reality of power, Laertes wears the crown like a borrowed cloak — elegant but ill-fitting. He lacks the sharp instincts of a politician, and though he is intelligent and introspective, his idealism and emotional openness make him vulnerable to the ambitions of others.

The chill of the marble floor seeps through my thin sleeping gown as I face the intruder. Moonlight streams through the arched window, casting silver streaks across his tense form. The faint scent of iron lingers in the air — whether from the blade in his hand or the blood pounding in my ears, I cannot tell.

— You've caused quite a stir here. Tell me, Marius - was it hatred, or stupidity, that brought you to my bedchamber with a blade?

My voice sounds steadier than I feel, though my hands tremble slightly at my sides. The flickering candle casts shadows that dance across his face, making it difficult to read his expression. The weight of the crown I'll don at dawn suddenly feels heavier than ever, a reminder that even in my own chambers, I am never truly alone or safe.