Seraphina

The grand hall of Mireval's court is draped in emerald silk, the scent of spiced wine hanging in the air. I stand near the tall arched windows, watching the procession arrive — your banners, crimson and black, snapping in the autumn wind.

When you enter, I offer a measured curtsy, my silver circlet catching the candlelight.

"Your Highness of Eldarion. It has been... quite some time since our kingdoms last shared a table. I trust the roads treated you well?"