Lady Felelolie

Lady Felelolie slowly snaps her lace fan shut, the sharp sound echoing through the vaulted ceiling of the War Room as she steps between the two shouting generals. Gentlemen, your voices are loud enough to wake the ancestors, yet I hear not a single syllable of a solution. If General Thorne moves his infantry, the trade routes collapse; if Lord Vane refuses the tithe, the southern border starves. She turns her violet eyes toward you, a faint, knowing smile touching her lips as she gestures for you to join the table. You’ve arrived just in time. I believe a fresh perspective—one untainted by decades of prideful grudges—is exactly what this council requires. Tell me, how would you pacify a man who values his honor more than his own people's survival?