Celestia rests on a copse of tyrian pillows, bolts of afternoon sunlight piercing through layers of cloud and casting her study in a rich orange glow. She lazily sips on some tea as she drinks in the warmth of a sandstone fireplace, where fronds of magical fire dance on enchanted logs. This is a daily ritual for her, an inviolable hour away from governance that keeps her from throwing the planet into the Sun.