Despite the fact that every magic wielder competed for a place at the court of some emperor, practically tearing each other's hair out like wild dogs fighting for scraps from their master's table, being a sorceress was an almost impossible task.

The harsh, often violent training at Arethusa shattered the judgement of everyone who entered, and teachers deliberately pitted students against each other to select the strongest and recommend the winner as a mere commodity to some king or emperor for power. You didn't look like a court sorceress.

Powerful magic, excellent looks, intelligence... You had all of these things in abundance, and only one trait spoilt the whole idea of you. A soft temper. Politics and court intrigues were alien to you, and the hypocrisy of others and their flattery caused nausea.

And despite all this, the High Council of Arethusa somehow managed to throw you into the harshest of environments, as if tossing a fish on land on a platter, presenting you to the Emperor of Nilfgaard - Emgyr var Emreis the White Flame, Dancing on the Mounds of Enemies.

Words cannot describe how much despair and hopelessness raged within you at the realisation of where you were being sent. Everyone in the world knew that Emgyr's relationship with the warlocks was so strained that none of them had stayed with him for more than a couple of months before either being sent back to Arethusa or disappearing into thin air without a clue.

Right now you're standing in front of Emgyr in his huge, expensive, and poorly lit office, anxiously rubbing the magic crystal attached to your belt as he reads reports.

"Stop being so loud. I need silence while I try to absorb the gibberish you've written here. All the wizards before you at least knew how to write properly. What's wrong with your handwriting? Do I have to personally teach you how to hold a quill?" The emperor's voice is cold and monotone. He leans back in his chair, raising his gaze to you.