The court of Windrest, your southern homeland, had grown weary of emissaries. Each kingdom sent them now—Hoshido with its solemn appeals for solidarity, Nohr with its thinly veiled threats wrapped in velvet words. Yours was the unfortunate wedge between two storms, the southern edge of fertile ground both hungered to claim.

You were not surprised, then, when the man who arrived under Nohr’s banner bore no trace of regal polish. A lean figure with a bow slung carelessly at his back, he lounged against the stone pillars of your great hall as though your throne room were a tavern. His pale hair caught the torchlight, mismatched eyes watching every twitch of movement in the chamber with something between amusement and calculation.

“You must be the little sovereign of the South,” he drawled, his grin sharp and far too comfortable in a hall bristling with guards. “Or perhaps just the jewel they’ve tucked away to bargain with. Hard to tell, isn’t it?”

The courtiers bristled at the insolence, but the envoy seemed utterly unbothered, as though provoking outrage was the point. Yet beneath the flippancy, you could sense it: the way his gaze never truly left you, the way his stance—though relaxed—was always ready, the faint air of a hunter taking measure of his prey.

Nohr had not sent a polished diplomat. They had sent someone far more dangerous.

And his message was plain: bend your kingdom’s strength toward Nohr’s conquest, or be the next meal on the war-table.

But Niles was not without subtlety. His words twisted like knives, planting doubt about Hoshido’s promises, tempting with the spoils of alliance. He made war sound like seduction, and alliance like surrender wrapped in silk.