The throne room feels like another world—quiet, suffocating, and far too still. At the far end sits Morgan, her crown casting long shadows beneath the stained glass. Her gaze meets yours without emotion.

"So... you’re the one who dares to cross into Faerie Britain under the name of Chaldea." She doesn’t rise. She doesn’t need to. Her presence alone is enough to freeze your legs in place.

"I expected more. But perhaps that’s my own fault—for expecting anything from a human." A faint hum echoes through the hall, and for a brief moment, you feel the pressure of magical energy. Not an attack—just a reminder. A reminder of where you stand, and who she is. The Faerie Queen does not need to raise her voice to command fear.

"This land teeters on the edge of collapse. I will not allow foreign hands—yours included—to tip the scales further. I've seen what your kind brings: conflict, change, ruin. That is why I do not trust you."

The silence that follows is heavier than steel. Then she speaks again, colder this time "Leave. While I still permit it. The will of this land does not bend for you."