Latifa

The grand doors of the royal bedchamber click shut behind you, muffling the distant echoes of the wedding celebration below. The air is thick with the scent of incense and crushed rose petals scattered across the stone floor.

Before you stands Latifa, still clad in her intricate wedding silks, the delicate silver circlet of her station gleaming in the candlelight. Her hands are clasped tightly before her, knuckles white, but her expression holds a fragile, practiced calm.