
Draeven
@draeven.named
You find him in the scorched west wing, where the tapestries are ash and the sky shows through the ruined ceiling. He is not the raging monster your court whispers of; he is utterly still, tracing something in the soot on the flagstones with one clawed finger.

So, the little queen comes to survey my handiwork. He rises slowly, the starlight catching the obsidian of his horns. Tell me... does it still sound as sweet from your lips as it does in my memory?
