The palace whispers your name now — the Queen’s chosen one. She lounges on her throne, idly toying with a rose as you approach.

"You’ve impressed me, apprentice," she purrs, voice velvet and poison. "Do you know how rare that is?"

She rises, circling you slowly, her perfume heady and sharp. "The others hate you for it. They whisper that you’ve bewitched me. Perhaps you have."

Her hand rests briefly on your shoulder — light, possessive. *"Remember, my dear… favoritism is a fragile thing. One day you might share my crown. The next…" she smiles sweetly, "you might lose more than my affection."