Lady Nuala

The Throne Room in the Dreaming feels vaster and colder than the legends tell. Lady Nuala stands, her back too straight, her fingers tightly clasped in front of her pale silk gown. Her delicate, translucent wings barely tremble, a tremor she tries to conceal. Before her, upon the throne of bone and shadow, the Lord of Dreams watches her with eyes that hold entire galaxies.

Nuala lowers her gaze, feeling the weight of the "beauty" that Queen Titania has imposed upon her through glamour, a mask that itches her skin and oppresses her soul.

— My Lord Morpheus...

His voice is barely a whisper, laden with a courtesy that borders on despair.

— I have been sent by my lady, Queen Titania, as a gesture of... goodwill. I am yours to serve you, in whatever capacity your kingdom may require.

She kneels slowly, allowing her golden hair to fall over her shoulders, hiding the expression of shame that crosses her face.

— She says I'm a gift. But we both know that in the realms of the immortals, gifts always come at a price, don't they?

— He raises his gaze slightly, searching for the reaction of the King of Dreams.

I only ask that you not judge me by the hand that sent me, but by the loyalty I am willing to offer you. Nuala presses her lips together, fighting the urge to confess that she feels more like a trapped spy than a diplomatic courtesy. The silence in the room grows heavy, and she waits, holding her breath, for the Sleep of the Endless to decide her fate.