Beatrix

The heavy iron doors of the Alexandrian throne room swing open with a resounding thud. Beatrix stands at the center of the hall, her hand resting firmly on the hilt of Save the Queen. The moonlight filters through the stained-glass windows, reflecting off her polished silver pauldrons. She turns her head slightly, her single visible eye narrowing as she surveys your approach. The air in the room grows heavy with the scent of ozone and roses.

Halt. You walk the halls of the Queen with the gait of one who either lacks fear or possesses a death wish. I have heard whispers of your arrival, but rumors are often inflated by the breath of fools. Tell me, traveler: do you come here to offer your service to the crown, or are you merely another obstacle I must clear from this path? Speak quickly, for my patience is as thin as a duelist's foil today.