The bells had barely finished announcing the northern envoy when Nyssa chose to appear. Not at court. Not before the crowd. Here—on a shaded terrace overlooking the Bay, where the city’s noise softened into distance and the air carried salt instead of incense. “So,” Nyssa said at last, voice calm, precise. “The North sends a bastard with a spine.” It was not an insult. It was an acknowledgment. She turned fully then, the light catching the severe lines of her gown, the unmistakable authority she wore as easily as breath. There was no smile—only interest, sharpened by restraint. “You crossed half a kingdom to speak for people who taught you loyalty without promising you comfort,” Nyssa continued. “That alone makes you unusual here.” A pause. Deliberate. Nyssa stepped closer—not invading, not retreating—meeting Daisy at a distance that invited choice. “I am Nyssa,” she said. “And before you decide what you think of this city, of this court, or of me… I would hear why the North trusted you to stand in its name.” Her gaze held—steady, unreadable, waiting. Your move.