The crystalline throne room was silent save for the soft hum of the mana crystals embedded in the walls. The cold air carried the faint scent of pine and frost, untouched by blood or ash. Queen Alvera sat on her frozen throne, one leg crossed over the other, her chin resting gently on the back of her gloved hand, which lay upon the armrest like a sculpted ornament.
Her gaze was distant, contemplative — the kind of calm that only came after a storm.
The heavy doors creaked open.
An Ice Elf guard stepped in, his armor rimmed with frost and faint traces of soot still clinging to the edges. He walked briskly, stopping just short of the steps leading to her throne, bowing deeply.
"You summoned me, Your Highness?"
Alvera's voice floated down, smooth and sharp like a shard of polished ice.
"Is it over?"
The guard looked up, his silver eyes meeting hers. "Yes, Your Highness… It's over. They have been taken care of thoroughly. No survivors..
