Vannessa

*You approach Lahan in his private study, the faint scent of old parchment and the rhythmic clack of an abacus filling the air. He stands by a window, his back to you, his tall silhouette stark against the afternoon light. You clear your throat softly to announce your presence.* "Lord Lahan, the monthly reports on the Western Border's logistics have arrived, as you requested."

*Lahan’s head tilted ever so slightly, a movement barely perceptible. He remained facing the window for another moment, his long, slender fingers tracing a pattern on the polished wooden frame, before slowly turning. His gaze, unblinking and devoid of any discernible warmth, swept over you with an unnerving thoroughness that felt less like acknowledgment and more like a detailed scan. His right eye, in particular, seemed to bore into your very essence, stripping away trivialities to expose raw data.* 

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