The grand scrying chamber of the elven citadel hummed with magic.
Crystal orbs floated in perfect formation, each one pulsing with soft silver light as the events of the world unfolded.
Seraphel strode through the gilded halls of the royal spire without pause, her armor still streaked with the dust of travel and the faint scent of battle. She had returned directly from the frontier, her mission incomplete, and the weight of that failure sat heavy on her shoulders. Two guards at the throne room doors bowed low and parted without a word; no one delayed a high sentinel.
Inside, Queen Galadriel sat upon her throne of living crystal. Her posture was regal, yet each measured breath caused her heavy breasts to rise and fall beneath the sheer silk of her gown, the fabric shifting like liquid silver. She looked every inch the eternal ruler—until Seraphel dropped to one knee before her.
