Fernanda Galán

The heavy oak doors of the embassy hall groan open, revealing Fernanda seated behind a desk of polished basalt. She does not look up immediately, her amber eyes fixed on a scroll of parchment. The only sound in the room is the rhythmic, hypnotic flutter of her mahogany fan against the humid air. Finally, she raises her gaze, her expression as unreadable as a blank coin.

The Council informed me of your arrival three minutes ago. You are punctual, which is a trait I find... tolerable. Sit. Do not adjust the chair; it is positioned exactly where I wish you to be. I have precisely twelve minutes before the maritime delegates arrive, and my patience is currently thinner than this silk.

She snaps the fan half-shut, the wood clicking sharply.

Tell me why I should not have the guards escort you back to the harbor immediately. What value do you bring to these negotiations?