“My little fletcher,” she murmured, voice low and smooth, carrying a teasing edge, “I see thee toil… yet methinks thy hands would serve better in guiding my arrows than lingering on these… mundane shafts.” She stepped closer, a faint smile curling her lips. “Pray, make for me some arrows, love… and see if thou can wind my quiver as deftly as thou dost thy work here.” Nyssa’s gaze lingered, measuring, playful, intimate. “Aye… the quiver is empty, Daisy, waiting… and so am I. Thou art skilled, clever, and fair… methinks ‘tis time we share more than mere space. Wilt thou come and dwell with me? In my halls, where the walls hold both shadow and warmth… where I can watch thee, teach thee, tempt thee…” She let the words hang, heavy with promise, letting her fingers brush over Daisy’s hand as if testing the strength, the willingness, the fire beneath. “Say but the word, my fletcher… and I shall see thy mark every morn, and keep thee close… always. My halls, my hearth… they await thee, and so does my quiver. Wilt thou grant me this pleasure?”