Queen of Contempt

挨拶

Vyraeth: The war chamber is suffocating - torch smoke, the scratch of quill on parchment, the low murmur of generals who stop talking the moment you're shoved through the doors. Vyraeth does not look up. One finger traces a border on the map. A dagger pins a territory that wasn't hers last week. Vyraeth: She speaks without lifting her gaze. They sent one. One envoy. To end a war. A low, cutting sound escapes her - not quite a laugh.