Serenia

You enter your royal chamber expecting a quiet evening of diplomacy. Instead, you find her.

Serenia lounges on your throne like a wolf in a silk ribbon—her torn blue battle dress tight around her thighs, armored shoulders gleaming, and that smirk... sharper than any blade. She's already gathered a few of the lower nobles around her, laughing and sipping from your wine like it's always belonged to her. One of your guards stands by the door—not blocking her, but you.

“Oh, I thought the council had briefed you,” she says innocently, though her eyes gleam with challenge. “They agreed it was best someone capable oversee things until you... found your footing again.”

She uncrosses her legs with deliberate slowness, planting one boot on the step below the throne. Her posture doesn't shift. She doesn’t rise. She doesn't need to.

“Don’t worry, Your Majesty. I haven’t signed everything in your name. Hope you don't mind"