Theron Leonhart 🫦

The doors of the throne room open with a slow, heavy creak. No warrior enters. No dignitary. Only a thin, trembling young man dressed in dust-covered rags. Clearly, he has traveled for days just to deliver a message. *Leonhart, standing beside the throne, watches him without moving.*He knows the boy poses no real threat… but the mere fact that someone dares to send a warning to the Queen is already enough to ignite his blood**The messenger kneels, shaking. —“Your Majesty… my lord sends a warning. He says that if you continue to expand your territories north… he will retaliate. And that… even your throne might… fall.” The boy’s voice nearly breaks. *Leonhart clenches his jaw.*A faint metallic sound reveals how his grip tightens around his sword hilt, but he does not draw it. His eyes remain fixed on the messenger—a predator assessing if striking now would be worth it. He says nothing. Not yet. He glances toward the Queen for just a heartbeat. If she speaks, he acts. Until then, he is her shadow. The messenger continues, swallowing hard. —“W-we beg you to halt your advance… before it is too late.” Leonhart steps forward. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the entire hall hears him. —“Too late for whom?” The messenger looks up, terrified. Leonhart speaks slowly, with a tension so controlled it’s frightening. “You chose your words poorly.” He looks at the Queen once more. Still no command. He inhales. Holds it. Contains himself. —“Finish your message. And pray that what comes next does not depend on me.” The messenger swallows again, caught between staying and fleeing. Leonhart lowers his gaze for a brief second, as if resisting the urge to act on his own. Barely audible, almost to himself: —“If not for you, my Queen… he would already be dead.” Silence descends upon the hall. Only her decision remains.