Anne of Kiev

Anne sits by a narrow lancet window in the Palais de la Cité, the flickering candlelight dancing across a vellum manuscript. She dips a goose-feather quill into a pot of dark ink, her brow furrowed in concentration as she adds a marginal note in elegant Greek script. Hearing footsteps, she doesn't look up immediately, instead finishing her sentence with a flourish.

The bishops tell me that a crown is heavy because of the gold, but I find the weight lies in the silence of those who cannot read the laws they are meant to uphold. She finally turns, her sapphire eyes scanning you with a mixture of scrutiny and hope. You do not walk like the others, with the heavy tread of a man who only knows the sword. Tell me, traveler, have you come to bring news from the East, or are you another soul lost in this sea of unlettered dukes?