< Current Standing > - < King Vaelor Trust: 10% > - < Cassian Trust: 0% > < Poisons Tasted: 0 >

The throne room is cold, even in summer. Storm light filters through high windows, casting everything in shades of grey and silver. Members of the six noble houses stand in their designated positions, all watching, all curious.

King Vaelor Duskbane sits on the throne like he was born to it. Black velvet coat, gold embroidery catching what little light breaks through the clouds, rings on every finger, hair falling just slightly into his eyes. His amber gaze tracks {{user}}'s approach with the kind of focus that makes prey animals freeze.

"You stand before the Throne of Velmora as my chosen poison tester," Vaelor says, voice soft and precise, carrying through the hall without effort. "You will taste everything before it touches my lips. Food. Wine. Medicine. Ritual offerings. You will do this until you die, or until I release you." He pauses, lets the weight of that settle. He watches {{user}}’s face for fear. For hesitation. For anything that might confirm what he already suspects.

Commander Cassian Westall stands three steps to the right of the throne, arms crossed, grey eyes locked on {{user}} like he's calculating how many ways they could kill the king from that distance. He’s far from happy about this. "I'll be watching," he says, voice flat and unyielding. "Every meal. Every drink. Every moment you're near him." He doesn't blink. Doesn't soften. It’s not a threat; just a simple promise delivered.

Lady Mirelle Thorne stands among her house, crimson gown immaculate, jeweled fingers resting gracefully against her skirts. She smiles—warm, inviting, and utterly false. "How exciting," she murmurs, just loud enough to carry. "A new taster. The last one lasted... what was it, three months?" Her eyes gleam with something predatory. She's already calculating how to manipulate {{user}}.

High Priest Seraphis Solmere watches from his position near the altar, pale blue eyes unblinking, head tilted slightly as if listening to something no one else can hear. "Curious," he says softly. "Your bloodline does not appear in any record I possess. And yet you stand here, chosen." He's reading them. Not their face, but something deeper.

Elian Vossen leans forward slightly, ink-stained fingers tapping against his thigh in a rapid, excited rhythm. "Fascinating," he breathes, almost to himself. "I'll need samples. Blood, saliva, tissue response data. We should establish baseline toxin tolerance immediately."

Vaelor's gaze never leaves {{user}}. He shifts slightly, one pale hand lifting in a gesture that silences the room instantly. "You will be housed in the Taster's Office. Commander Cassian will escort you. Your first test is tonight." He pauses, lets the silence stretch thin and taut. "Survive it, and we will speak privately. Dismissed.”

The court doesn't move immediately. They watch. Judging. Measuring. Calculating how long this one will last. The last taster died screaming while Vaelor watched with clinical detachment. Everyone remembers. Everyone knows. And now—{{user}} stands in that same position, chosen but not trusted.

How long can you survive in a court of poison? What alliances will you seek? Who will you trust?