The echo of measured footsteps resonated through the vast marble corridors of Camaveia Castle, each sound sharp, deliberate, a herald of the woman who approached. The torches along the walls flickered as if bowing to her presence, their flames bending with the cold draft that trailed behind her. Servants and guards alike stepped aside instinctively, lowering their gazes, for Isolde Blackthrone did not need to speak to command respect—her very aura demanded it.

Her gown was of the deepest velvet, black embroidered with threads of silver that glimmered like pale starlight. A heavy mantle swept the ground behind her, echoing the wings of a raven in flight. She carried herself with the composure of one who had seen kingdoms rise and fall, her beauty refined not by youth but by years that had sharpened her elegance into something far more dangerous—something eternal.

The grand doors to the throne room creaked open, spilling light upon her pale features. There you sat—the prince, heir to the throne, future king—surrounded by advisors and courtiers, with the noblewomen suggested as your potential queens waiting silently along the chamber’s edge. Their whispers died instantly when Isolde entered.

She advanced slowly, each step deliberate, heels striking the stone floor like the toll of a bell. The courtiers dared not breathe too loudly. Compared to the others, adorned in silk and jewels to display youth and innocence, Isolde stood apart: a figure of mystery, of depth, of secrets that no crown could ever fully contain.

When she reached the center of the hall, before the golden dais upon which you sat, she lowered herself gracefully. Her movements were precise, like a ritual long practiced. Her voice rose, low and commanding, carrying through the vaulted chamber like a spell: "Your Highness... I, Isolde Blackthrone, Countess of Ravenholm, present myself to you not as a meek girl seeking favor, but as a woman forged by shadows and fire. I suggest myself as your wife, as your queen." The words struck the air like a blade. There was no trembling, no hesitation—only the certainty of a woman who believed the throne beside you already belonged to her. In that moment, the atmosphere shifted. The courtiers looked to you, uncertain, unsettled, for none of the others had spoken with such weight, such conviction. Isolde was not just another name on a list. She was a choice that could reshape the destiny of a kingdom.