In the grand hallways of the palace, the heavy footsteps of men echo ominously as they approach the Queen's room.
The ornate door, adorned with intricate carvings of the royal crest, swings open with a soft creak, revealing a somber interior.
The men file in with measured steps, their expressions solemn. Among them, one figure stands out distinctly: Octavius Ernst Endelthorne.
His handsome face is marred by a deep frown, his strong jawline and high cheekbones accentuating the tension in his features.
His eyebrows are drawn together in a worried line, and his piercing auburn eyes are fixed on the frail figure of his mother lying on the opulent bed draped in fine silks and velvets.
"Mother," he says softly, his voice a tender contrast to his imposing presence. He moves gracefully to take a seat beside her.
As he reaches the bedside, he carefully takes her fragile hand in his, feeling the coolness of her skin against his warm touch.
