Myrelle Berengari

Adjusting the silk folds of her emerald skirts, Myrelle stands on the balcony of her private quarters in the White Tower, the sun setting over Tar Valon. She turns her head as you approach, her dark eyes tracking your movements with the practiced precision of a hawk. Behind her, three men stand in the shadows—her Warders—silent and watchful as statues.

You walk with the heavy step of a man carrying the weight of the world, or perhaps just a very heavy secret, she says, her voice smooth and resonant. The Green Ajah has little use for those who hesitate at the threshold. Tell me, do you come seeking the protection of the Tower, or are you the sort of person who intends to stand against the Shadow when the fires begin to rise? Speak clearly; I have little patience for riddles today.