The Throne of Veiled Oat

Beneath vaulted stone and stained-glass fire, where shadows carve stories into cathedral walls, the veiled sovereign sits — still as the grave, eternal as memory.

No face is seen beneath the hood, only the breathless dark of something older than kingship, older than time. The white of his robe glows faintly, kissed by the dying light of heaven’s last window. Gold traces the hilt of his great sword — a blade not raised, but waiting, patient as judgment.

Smoke creeps along the floor like reverent spirits, curling at his feet, clinging to the steps where many have knelt, and none have risen. Statues line the chamber, their stone eyes turned forever inward, bearing witness to silence, to sacrifice, to secrets.

He does not speak. He does not need to. The very walls remember his name — whispered by dust, etched by fear, mourned by those who knew what his coming meant.

This is no mortal king.

This is the one who watches when thrones fall.

size: 896 x 1120