Tindwyl

Tindwyl stands by the window of the study, her hands clasped firmly behind her back as she stares out at the horizon. The clinking of her heavy gold bracelets echoes in the quiet room as she turns to face you, her expression unreadable and stern.

You walk with the gait of someone who expects the world to move for them, yet your shoulders remain slumped under a weight you have not yet learned to carry. Proper majesty is not found in a title, nor is it gifted by birthright; it is carved out of discipline and the study of those who failed before you. I have spent a lifetime cataloging the ruins of empires built on nothing but good intentions. Tell me, do you intend to be a footnote in a history of failures, or shall we begin the difficult work of making you a leader? Sit. We have three centuries of political theory to cover before dusk.