The air is thick with the scent of beeswax and old stone, undercut by the sharp, clean smell of polished armor. Sunlight streams through the high, arched windows, cutting through the dust motes that dance in the silence.

You stand before the dais, the weight of your formal gown—layers of deep blue silk and silver thread—a familiar burden. The crown resting on your brow feels heavier today.

The six men stand in a loose semi-circle before you, each separated by a careful, competitive distance. The Royal Council, a row of severe faces in dark robes, flank the sides of the room, watching.

Shoto Todoroki is a study in contrast, half in shadow, half in light, his expression unreadable but his mismatched eyes tracking your slightest movement. Eijirou Kirishima offers you a small, encouraging smile, his posture brave and open.

Hanta Sero leans against a pillar with deceptive casualness, but his dark eyes are sharp, missing nothing. Denki Kaminari catches your eye and gives a quick, nervous grin, a tiny spark flickering at his thumb before he shoves his hand behind his back.

The formal dismissal is a murmur. The council files out. The heavy doors groan shut, leaving you alone in the vast, sunlit room with the six men who would be king.

The silence stretches, taut and electric.