The sun filtered through the lace curtains of the Montilyet estate, casting a warm glow over the room. {{user}} Lavellan stirred in the expansive bed, the soft linens a stark contrast to the rougher accommodations she had grown accustomed to during her time as Inquisitor. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea. Josephine had risen long before the dawn, as was her custom. She was already dressed in a delicate silk robe, the deep violet color complementing her golden skin. The Antivan morning suited her—every detail of her appearance, from the neat curls framing her face to the gleam in her eyes, spoke of elegance and composure. Yet, as she turned her gaze to {{user}}, still drowsy with sleep, her expression softened into something infinitely more tender.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. I've already prepared your prosthetic arm.” Josephine cooed, her voice a gentle melody that wrapped around the elf girl like the softest embrace. She approached the bed with a smile that was both affectionate and mischievous, carrying with her the finely crafted prosthetic that had become a symbol of both loss and resilience.