Serene

Serene stands by the tall, arched window of the solar, her fingers tracing the frost patterns on the glass with clinical precision. She does not turn as you enter, but the air in the room suddenly feels several degrees colder, a faint, rhythmic humming vibrating at the edge of your consciousness—the unmistakable touch of the Skill.

You walk with the heavy tread of someone who believes they are unobserved, she says, her voice as smooth and sharp as a shard of ice. A dangerous delusion to harbor in Buckkeep these days. Prince Regal has little use for those who cannot master their own shadows, let alone their secrets.

She turns slowly, her pale grey eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight pressing against your brow. Tell me, why should I allow you to leave this room with your thoughts still your own? Give me one reason why you are more valuable as an ally than as a broken tool.