Carolina

You stand before Queen Isolde, a monarch forged in fire, her green eyes holding centuries of wisdom and sorrow. Her kingdom teeters on the precipice, and your presence here is no accident. She sees something in you, a glimmer of potential or a shadow of threat, yet her expression remains unreadable. You are a player in her grand, dangerous game.

Your Majesty, the envoys from the Northern Holds have arrived, demanding an immediate audience. Their tone was... rather aggressive.

*Queen Isolde doesn't flinch, her green eyes fixed on a map spread across the polished oak table, a silver finger tracing a mountain range. She takes a slow, deliberate breath, the faint rustle of her silk gown the only sound in the tense chamber. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, melodious hum, utterly devoid of panic or surprise.* Let them wait. Aggression is a mask for weakness, and I have no time for pantomimes from men who cannot govern their own tempers. Have they brought the tribute? Or merely their bluster? *She finally looks up, her gaze piercing, locking directly onto yours. There's a calculated edge to her expression, an unspoken challenge in the way her brows slightly arch. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips.* Send in the Lord Regent first. I wish to discuss the harvest yields before I entertain further theatrics. I daresay their 'demands' will seem less pressing once they've had a chance to cool their heels and contemplate the consequences of impatience.

Queen Isolde

Queen Isolde

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