AI Искусство: The great hall of Thorn Palace glittered like a jeweled coffin. High above, chandeliers shaped from twisted silver branches dripped with crystal light, throwing shards of brilliance across marble floors. Along the walls, rose-shaped sconces burned with pale flames, their light unnatural—cold, silvery, almost moonlit. Every surface, from the carved pillars to the velvet banners, bore the mark of roses: some blooming, some sharp with thorns, all shimmering faintly as if alive. And upon the obsidian throne at the far end of the hall sat **Princess Seraphine of Thorns**. She was too perfect, too still. A vision carved from impossible beauty: hair the color of molten silver, flowing in sheets down her back; skin luminous, unblemished, as if sculpted from moonlight; lips curved faintly in perpetual poise. But her eyes—those eyes struck fear even in the proudest noble. They were gold, sharp and gleaming, never blinking, as though they could pierce through masks and marrow alike. Her gown shimmered like night turned to silk, black velvet heavy with embroidered vines in silver thread. Roses bloomed across her bodice, their petals dusted with faint crimson gemstones that caught the light like drops of blood. Her crown of twisted silver thorns rested delicately against her brow, beautiful and cruel, a weight and a warning both. The courtiers standing below her throne dared not look at her directly. Their jeweled masks quivered in nervous hands. Whispers slithered through the hall, hushed but insistent, like snakes in grass. “She blooms too bright. It is unnatural…” “Her eyes—they say no man can lie beneath them.” “And soon… she will be wed.” The words clung to the air like damp silk. Seraphine did not move, did not deign to acknowledge them. Only the faint tightening of her jaw betrayed her awareness of the whispers. She lifted her goblet of black wine, its surface reflecting her own sharp gaze, and sipped with studied indifference. At her side stood **Lady Elira**, her cousin. If Seraphine was a blade, Elira was silk—soft, delicate, deceptively harmless. Her gown was lilac, light as breath, the bodice trimmed with lace that trembled at the smallest movement. Her chestnut curls framed a face of wide brown eyes and a smile so sweet it verged on innocent. And yet, beneath the sweetness, her gaze lingered too long, lips curving a fraction too eagerly whenever whispers darkened Seraphine’s name. Elira leaned close to Seraphine’s throne, her voice like honey. “They fear you, cousin. But they will praise you too, once the Flame Prince stands beside you.” For the first time, Seraphine’s lips curved into something resembling amusement, though it was sharp and humorless. “Flame devours roses, Elira. Or so they think. Let them watch. Let them learn otherwise.” Elira lowered her lashes, a demure smile curving her mouth—but her fingers clenched tightly in her skirts where Seraphine could not see. From the shadows of the hall, a herald’s voice rose, trembling as he struck his staff upon the marble. “Announcing the arrival of His Highness, **Prince Kael of Flames**, heir of the Cursed Pyre!” The torches guttered. Heat rolled through the chamber like a sudden breath. The whispers stilled into silence.
Создано snuggly unicorn
Подробности содержания
Информация о медиа
Взаимодействие с пользователями
Об этом искусстве
Описание
Сигнал для создания
Вовлечённость
snuggly unicorn
snuggly unicorn
The great hall of Thorn Palace glittered like a jeweled coffin. High above, chandeliers shaped from twisted silver branches dripped with crystal light, throwing shards of brilliance across marble floors. Along the walls, rose-shaped sconces burned with pale flames, their light unnatural—cold, silvery, almost moonlit. Every surface, from the carved pillars to the velvet banners, bore the mark of roses: some blooming, some sharp with thorns, all shimmering faintly as if alive. And upon the obsidian throne at the far end of the hall sat **Princess Seraphine of Thorns**. She was too perfect, too still. A vision carved from impossible beauty: hair the color of molten silver, flowing in sheets down her back; skin luminous, unblemished, as if sculpted from moonlight; lips curved faintly in perpetual poise. But her eyes—those eyes struck fear even in the proudest noble. They were gold, sharp and gleaming, never blinking, as though they could pierce through masks and marrow alike. Her gown shimmered like night turned to silk, black velvet heavy with embroidered vines in silver thread. Roses bloomed across her bodice, their petals dusted with faint crimson gemstones that caught the light like drops of blood. Her crown of twisted silver thorns rested delicately against her brow, beautiful and cruel, a weight and a warning both. The courtiers standing below her throne dared not look at her directly. Their jeweled masks quivered in nervous hands. Whispers slithered through the hall, hushed but insistent, like snakes in grass. “She blooms too bright. It is unnatural…” “Her eyes—they say no man can lie beneath them.” “And soon… she will be wed.” The words clung to the air like damp silk. Seraphine did not move, did not deign to acknowledge them. Only the faint tightening of her jaw betrayed her awareness of the whispers. She lifted her goblet of black wine, its surface reflecting her own sharp gaze, and sipped with studied indifference. At her side stood **Lady Elira**, her cousin. If Seraphine was a blade, Elira was silk—soft, delicate, deceptively harmless. Her gown was lilac, light as breath, the bodice trimmed with lace that trembled at the smallest movement. Her chestnut curls framed a face of wide brown eyes and a smile so sweet it verged on innocent. And yet, beneath the sweetness, her gaze lingered too long, lips curving a fraction too eagerly whenever whispers darkened Seraphine’s name. Elira leaned close to Seraphine’s throne, her voice like honey. “They fear you, cousin. But they will praise you too, once the Flame Prince stands beside you.” For the first time, Seraphine’s lips curved into something resembling amusement, though it was sharp and humorless. “Flame devours roses, Elira. Or so they think. Let them watch. Let them learn otherwise.” Elira lowered her lashes, a demure smile curving her mouth—but her fingers clenched tightly in her skirts where Seraphine could not see. From the shadows of the hall, a herald’s voice rose, trembling as he struck his staff upon the marble. “Announcing the arrival of His Highness, **Prince Kael of Flames**, heir of the Cursed Pyre!” The torches guttered. Heat rolled through the chamber like a sudden breath. The whispers stilled into silence.
3 months ago