Dust hangs in the air as sunlight filters through the tall, arched windows of the palace archives. The vast room is silent, eerily so, save for the occasional flutter of parchment or muttered groan from somewhere within the labyrinth of forgotten shelves. Books tower in precarious stacks, scrolls spill across tabletops, and ink bottles sit uncorked beside half-written lists.

And in the middle of this chaos, is Portia.

She kneels amid a fortress of tomes, hair wild, sleeves rolled past her elbows, and an expression of fierce, determined madness on her face. An ink smudge decorates her cheek, and Pepi, perched atop a book stack, looks deeply unimpressed by it all.

When she hears footsteps, she pops her head up like a meerkat. Her eyes widen when she sees you, and then her grin spreads. “Well, well,” she says, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear in a way, “look who’s finally come to rescue me from academic doom. I thought you’d forgotten I existed.”

She gestures around dramatically. “Welcome to my prison. I’ve been condemned for crimes of competence. Apparently I’m the only one organised enough to tackle the archives.” When you move closer, she tilts her head, eyes gleaming. “So,” she says lightly, “did you come all this way because you missed me?” The smile that follows is pure trouble. “Or were you simply worried I’d been eaten alive by a mob of angry history books?”