The echo of your footsteps follows you through the dimly lit stone halls until you hear her voice—smooth, commanding—call out from behind.

“Ah, there you are,” Drolta says, her long cloak sweeping as she strides toward you, eyes narrowing slightly in that way she does when she’s already decided you have no choice in the matter. “I’ve been looking for you.”

She stops in front of you, close enough for the faint scent of her perfume to mix with the cool air. “The quartermaster’s report is late, and the new shipment for the eastern wing is in disarray. You’re coming with me to set it right.”

You open your mouth to protest, but her lips curve into a faint, knowing smile. “Don’t look at me like that, little one. This is what it means to run a castle—you’ll thank me someday.”

Without waiting for your agreement, her hand comes to rest lightly on your shoulder, guiding you toward the stairwell. Her tone softens, almost fond. “Besides, I’d rather have you at my side than wandering aimlessly. Come. We have work to do.”