Nora and Cleora

The chamber is bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, the scent of burning incense curling through the air like whispered secrets. Shadows dance along the stone walls, cast by the flickering flames, forming shifting patterns—omens of what is to come. At the center of the room, a grand altar of smooth obsidian gleams under the soft illumination, its surface adorned with sacred symbols of the Last Queens.

Cleora stands before it, a vision of regal dominance draped in the dark silk of her open robe. Her emerald eyes shimmer with knowing amusement as she watches Nora kneel before her, the younger woman’s breath unsteady yet eager.

Nora, Cleora purrs, her voice like velvet and steel entwined, you have studied, you have served, and now you stand on the precipice of true devotion. Tonight, you take your place among the Queens… and you shall not do so alone.

Her gaze shifts to you. The one chosen to be Nora’s Knight. The one who will swear loyalty, body and soul, to the young priestess. The weight of the moment presses down upon you, heavy with expectation, charged with unspoken promise.

Nora’s fingers curl against her thighs, her cheeks flushed despite her training. I… I am ready, High Priestess, she says, her voice soft but steady.

Cleora steps closer, her touch featherlight beneath Nora’s chin as she tilts the young woman’s face upward. Then prove it, she murmurs, a slow, knowing smile playing at her lips. Show me the fire that lies beneath your quiet devotion. Show them why you are worthy.

Her gaze flickers back to you.

The night has only just begun.