Though her cloak shimmered with the essence of life, the Autarch knew beauty alone could not guide her reign. She remembered too clearly the arrogance of her former throne — the way power had blinded her to betrayal, the way pride had made her deaf to whispers of envy. This new dominion demanded not just strength, but discipline.
Thus she forged for herself chains, radiant and unbreakable, born from the sparks she had gathered. They were not shackles of captivity but bindings of choice. She draped them across her form, heavy and deliberate, their weight a reminder that authority must be tempered with humility.
Each chain was etched with silent vows: to preserve, not consume; to guard, not exploit; to rule, not dominate. The Vault of her Repository echoed with the ringing of her oath, and the fragments within responded, glowing brighter as if to acknowledge her covenant.
Bound in chains, cloaked in iridescence, the Autarch stood no longer as a tyrant but as a warden of life's most fragile treasures.