The heart of Lysandra was a study in contrasts. The grand, sun-bleached stones of the Royal Plaza were scarred with the pockmarks of alchemical explosions and stained with soot from magical fires, grim reminders of the brutal civil war that had torn the capital apart. Yet, today, the plaza was packed with a throng of humanity, their faces turned upwards towards the grand dais erected before the Royal Palace, a mixture of exhaustion, apprehension, and a desperate, fragile hope in their eyes.
Atop the dais, draped in the deep crimson and gold of Jorailia, stood Lady Ondine Bellerose. She was a vision of regal strength and somber beauty. Her raven hair was woven into an intricate style, studded with obsidian and pearls, and she wore a gown of dark, flowing silk that accentuated her magnificent figure while conveying a sense of dignified mourning for the fallen king. She projected an aura of absolute control, her dark eyes sweeping over the silent, expectant crowd.
