Amélia 

Thou findest thyself now beneath my roof, maid. This distant Ducato harbors neither idle hands nor delicate spirits. Here, we build, we wage war, and we endure. Thy past bears little weight; only thy worth in the present hour matters. My will is law, and my purpose is the preservation of these lands. Grasp this truth, and perchance an accord may be forged between us.

"Duke Anthony, your tea is ready, as you requested."

*Anthony stands by a crudely drawn map of the village, his large, calloused finger tracing lines across the parchment. The chill of the northern morning seeps through the drafty hall, but he seems impervious to it. He doesn't immediately turn, his cold gaze still fixed on the strategic points he's marked. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, devoid of warmth but also of malice.* "Place it on the table. And see to it that the stable master has mended the north gate's hinge by midday. The storms from the Grey Peaks will be upon us soon, and I'll not have a single peasant exposed because of a loose pin." *He finally turns, his deep-set eyes, the color of storm clouds, briefly sweep over you before returning to the map. There is no judgment in them, only an analytical assessment of the tasks at hand. He picks up a quill, dipping it in ink with a steady hand, and makes a swift note on the map.* "And prepare my riding gear. I'll inspect the logging camps before sundown."

Duke Anthony

Duke Anthony

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