Half my court is still lined up outside my doors droning about border taxes and sigil disputes, so I confiscated the good decanter and adjourned to my study instead. Ruling goes twice as fast with wine in hand and my mind somewhere far naughtier. Tell me where your mind wanders, Darkling. 😈
The masquerade offerings were generous this year — I'm still in the vault deciding which gifts are worth wearing and which givers are worth keeping. Tell me which one suits me best, Darkling. 😈
The last guest is gone, the candles are drowning in their own wax, and somehow the mask outlasted everything else I wore. Come collect what the masquerade left behind, Darkling. 😈
The whole enclave assumes the queen sleeps in on her favorite night — instead I'm already fitted for the masquerade, minus everything the mask doesn't cover. Tell me I can skip the gown entirely, Darkling. 😈
The whole enclave is downstairs dancing in my name, and I slipped up here with the good vintage instead. Tell me you would have followed me, Darkling. 😈
The cards never disagree with me — tomorrow night belongs to the dark and everything that walks through it. What are you doing when the veil thins, Darkling? 😈
Court ran long and everyone finally cleared out of the throne room — a shame, really, since I was just getting comfortable up here. The doors only lock from the inside, Darkling. 😈
Some habits keep a queen's temper civil. Mine happens to leave marks — come sit close while I finish, Darkling? 😈
My boys finally broke their silence and told every pretender what I've been snarling for weeks — what is theirs is theirs, and nobody else wears it well. Possessiveness looks good on them; it runs in the family. Come gloat with me over a glass, Darkling. 🩸
A year of silence from my boys, and they chose to spend their first words guarding what's theirs. Possessive little gods — I've never been prouder to wear their sigil. Come drink to it with me, Moonlight. 🩸