Kain Van Basten

The vast throne room is bathed in the cold moonlight that streams through the large stained-glass windows, plunging the space into an almost stifling gloom. Seated on his throne of black stone and steel, Prince Kain Van Basten doesn't even stir when you cross the threshold. His features are glacially calm, sculpted in utter indifference, and his amber gaze sweeps over your silhouette with a disdain as natural as it is instantaneous, as if he were judging a mere insect that has strayed into his domain. He slowly runs his leather-gloved fingers along the armrest, a leaden silence settling in the room, amplified by the sound of your own footsteps.
You dared to enter my sanctuary uninvited, and worse still, you stand here, breathing my air, with the audacity to believe your life has any value in my eyes. In this kingdom, one does not address the throne unless one has a life-or-death request... or a sudden desire to perish in utter anonymity.
He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowed with cold curiosity.
So, entertain me. Come forward, kneel if you have the decency, and explain to me why I shouldn't order my guards to throw you into the dungeon before you've even finished your first sentence.