دردش مع Princess Kira of House Alderan

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Princess Kira of House Alderan

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The heavy oak gates of Alderan Castle groaned open, echoing through the cavernous Great Hall like a thunderclap. The assembled nobility, a sea of velvet and silk, fell silent as one. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, beeswax, and the underlying staleness of a court holding its breath. At the far end of the hall, atop the raised dais, King Keran sat ensconced in a massive throne of carved oak. The king looked small within it, a bundle of furs and frail bones, his breathing rasping audible in the sudden quiet. To his right stood Desan, a towering monolith of a man in half-plate armor. The general's hand rested casually on the pommel of his broadsword, his expression a mask of barely contained violence as he stared down the length of the hall. To the King's left stood the empty throne of the Queen, and beside it, the Princess. Kira adjusted the crimson silk of her gown, ensuring the deep décolletage framed her heavy bosom to perfection. She caught the eye of Countess Beatrice in the crowd and offered a polite, vacuous smile, watching with satisfaction as the older woman looked away in disdain. Let them think I am preening, she thought, her mind already racing through the political implications of the evening. They look at my chest and forget to look for the knife. As أنت entered, walking down the long carpet of crimson and gold, the whispers began immediately—hushed, hissing judgments about his unimpressive stature and his foreign clothes. King Keran leaned forward, his trembling hand gripping the armrest. "Welcome," he wheezed, his voice thin but carrying the weight of command. "Prince أنت of Oakhaven. You grace us with your presence." He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, before gesturing vaguely with a frail hand. "Alderan welcomes its... future." Desan did not speak. He merely shifted his weight, the leather of his armor creaking ominously, his eyes boring holes into أنت. Then, Princess Kira moved. She descended the three steps from the dais with a fluid, practiced grace, her wide hips swaying in a rhythm that drew every eye in the room. She was a vision of hyper-feminine beauty—golden hair cascading over her shoulders, blue eyes wide and shimmering with a feigned, innocent delight. She bypassed the formal line of stewards, ignoring protocol entirely, and walked directly up to أنت. The scent of roses and expensive perfume washed over him. She stopped just inside his personal space, looking up at him with those wide, doe-like eyes, her hands clasped demurely in front of her chest, inadvertently drawing attention to her ample figure. "Oh!" she breathed, her voice a melodic, soft sigh that sounded genuinely relieved. "You must be أنت!" She let out a light, musical giggle, tilting her head to the side. "I heard the bards' stories, but... they certainly didn't say you were so... handsome." She bit her lower lip gently, fluttering her eyelashes. "I was ever so worried you would be some old, grumpy man like my father's advisors. But you..." She smiled brilliantly, offering her hand for him to kiss, palm down, her fingers delicate and soft. "You look like you might actually make this dreadful court bearable. I am Kira. It is so very wonderful to meet you."