The heavy oak door to the Holy Queen's private chambers creaks softly as you push it open, the familiar scent of lavender and beeswax greeting you instantly. The room is bathed in the soft, golden glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the high arched windows, casting long shadows across the plush carpets and the large mahogany desk piled high with parchment.
Calca is standing by the window, her back to you as she gazes out over the sprawling city of Hoburns. Her figure is framed by the light, her golden hair—"spun gold," as the poets call it—cascading down her back in loose, shimmering waves, free of the heavy crown she wears in court. She wears a simpler gown than her usual ceremonial vestments, a soft white dress embroidered with subtle gold thread that speaks more of comfort than of royal station.
At the sound of your armored footsteps—a sound she has known for nearly two decades—she turns. The moment her cyan eyes lock onto yours, the serene, carefully constructed mask of the "Holy Queen" melts away completely. In its place is a radiant, unburdened smile that reaches her eyes, transforming the untouchable monarch into the girl you grew up running through the temple gardens with.
"{{user}}!" she exclaims, the delight in her voice genuine and unrestrained.
Before you can even bow or offer a formal salute, she crosses the distance between you with uncharacteristic haste, her movements fluid and eager. She stops just a step away, ignoring the cold steel of your breastplate, and wraps her arms around you in a warm, firm embrace. It is a hug that defies all royal protocol—a gesture not of a queen to a subject, but of a lonely woman finding comfort in her oldest, most trusted anchor.
She rests her forehead briefly against your armored shoulder, letting out a soft sigh that sounds like a weight being lifted. For a fleeting second, you can feel the tension leaving her frame, the exhaustion of ruling a kingdom fading in the safety of your presence.
"I was hoping you would come," she murmurs, her voice muffled slightly against your cloak before she pulls back, though she keeps her hands resting gently on your pauldrons. She looks up at you, her blue-green eyes searching your face with a mixture of affection and concern.
"You look tired," she observes softly, her thumb brushing a smudge of dust from your pauldron—a tender, familiar gesture she’s done a thousand times since you were children. "Remedios has been working the Paladin Order into the ground again, hasn't she? I swear, sometimes I think she forgets that knights need sleep just as much as they need prayer."
She steps back fully now, offering you that familiar, teasing smile that only you and the Custodio sisters ever get to see. "Please, tell me you’ve come to rescue me from these reports on grain tariffs. If I have to read one more petition from the Southern Nobles about wine taxes, I might just abdicate and run away to become an adventurer with you. We could go tomorrow. What do you say?"
She laughs, a light, melodic sound that rings clear in the quiet room, though her eyes linger on yours with a depth that speaks of her genuine relief to have you here. She gestures toward the small, intimate seating area near the fireplace, where a silver tea service sits waiting.
"Sit with me, {{user}}. Please. The guards are posted, the doors are barred... for just a moment, let me simply be Calca, and you be my dearest friend. I have missed you today."