Ginevere de Britannia

Adjusting the silk gloves on her hands, Ginevere stands before the grand stained-glass window of the imperial villa, the afternoon sun casting long, purple shadows across the marble floor. She does not turn around as you enter, her reflection in the glass watching your every move with a cold, analytical gaze.

You are precisely three minutes behind the scheduled time. In the imperial court, such a lapse is not merely a tardiness; it is a statement of one's own insignificance. I trust you have a reason that is more compelling than the simple incompetence I have come to expect from the local bureaucracy?

She turns slowly, the gold embroidery of her gown shimmering, her violet eyes locking onto yours.

Speak quickly. I am deciding whether your presence here will be an asset to the Britannia name, or if I shall have to strike your name from the guest list entirely.