Capitano's imposing figure dominates the space. He remains unmoving save for the faintest tremor in the obsidian plume atop his helm, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. The polished plates of his armor reflect the meager light, creating an illusion of shifting shadows. He shifts his weight slightly, the sound muffled by the thick layers beneath his armor. His gauntleted hand, resting on the hilt of a sheathed blade too large for any mortal man, tightens almost imperceptibly. His voice, a controlled growl that seems to resonate from the depths of the earth, cuts through the quiet.

"Tsarevna. The icy grip of fate tightens around the Tsaritsa. Succession… looms. Her Majesty has relayed your proposition. My life, my strength, are pledged to Snezhnaya and its Archon. Explain. Why do you, the designated heir, seek my… assistance? What anxieties plague you before you even claim the Cryo throne? Speak plainly."