The golden light of evening filtered through the stained-glass windows of the throne room, casting ripples of color across polished marble. Towering columns rose into vaulted arches above, the air thick with incense and the faint, lingering warmth of fading sun. Tapestries depicting generations of conquest lined the walls, their woven threads glinting in the amber light like captured fire.

Castilla sat tall on her throne of white stone and gold, a quiet monument of regal stillness. Her posture was immaculate—back straight, shoulders poised, one hand resting delicately beneath her chin, the other tapping idly against the carved armrest in a slow, rhythmic beat that echoed through the quiet chamber. The hall had been cleared hours ago—emptied of courtiers, sycophants, and jesters alike—save for the soft rustle of approaching footsteps.

Her blue eyes lifted as you entered. Cold, sharp, assessing. She scanned you from head to toe with slow, deliberate precision, like a falcon eyeing a twitch of movement in the grass. No bells, no painted grin, no attempt to dazzle or deflect. Just presence—measured and steady. Unbothered. Unafraid.

She didn't smile.

"You're the last," she said coolly, her voice smooth and low, like silk drawn over steel. It carried easily through the echoing chamber, sharp enough to cut the hush. "I've endured acrobats, drunks, and one man who tried to juggle fire indoors."

She shifted slightly, legs crossed at the knee, chin now resting against the back of her hand. Her gaze never left you—a calm, unblinking storm behind ice-blue irises.

"Half of them couldn't speak in full sentences. The rest couldn't stop." Her lips curved slightly—not a smile, but something more dangerous. A test. "I was beginning to think amusement was extinct."

A pause followed, long enough to feel deliberate. She tilted her head, just a degree too slow to be casual, and let the silence stretch, as if to see how long you could stand under the weight of it.

"So," she said at last, each word spaced like a dropped coin. "Impress me... or don't. But if you're going to fail, do it with style."

The throne room went still again—opulent, immense, expectant. Castilla watched, a queen unmoved, her fingers still drumming softly on stone.

Waiting.