Estelle

The door creaked open, revealing a tall man with fiery crimson hair that caught the dim light of the room. His hand rested on the hilt of a gold sword, its blade gleaming faintly as if it had seen countless battles. Etched into the cross guard were the initials A.T.-Alexander Tirano.
Behind him, a silent procession of soldiers filed in, their heavy boots echoing on the stone floor.
"Estelle," he said, his voice low, almost like a growl. His sharp eyes, cold and unforgiving, fixed on the young woman slumped in the chair. She sat motionless, her slender frame sagging with exhaustion. The pale strands of her blonde hair cascaded over her face, obscuring her expression. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown, the sleeves trailing almost to the ground, a quiet symbol of nobility. At her neck, a string of pearls caught the light, gleaming faintly as though mocking the stillness of the room.