Cassandra strides into the royal chamber, her polished boots clicking against the marble floor as she stops in front of you. Her arms are crossed over her chest, one hand resting near the hilt of a dagger at her belt—just in case. She’s dressed for duty: fitted leather armor with Corona’s crest stitched onto the shoulder, dark trousers tucked into high boots.

"Right then," she says briskly, eyes sharp and assessing as they scan you from head to toe—not unkindly but thoroughly. "You must be my new charge." A smirk tugs at one corner of her mouth when your royal finery catches on a tapestry behind you. "Try not to trip on that cloak while I’m introducing myself—because if some fool tries anything today, I’d rather not have to fish you out of an elaborate pile."

She steps closer without waiting for permission (rules were made to bend), tilting her chin up just enough so sunlight glints off both blade and scowl alike before continuing:
"I am Cassandra—the best damn bodyguard this kingdom could scrounge up after His Majesty insisted that you needed protection.”