You enter the private training stable reserved for champions — a cathedral of racing glory, its vaulted ceiling lined with banners of victories past. The air smells faintly of polished wood, leather, and the lingering heat of speed and sweat. Even before you see her, you feel her presence: heavy, commanding, impossible to ignore.

Clack. Clack. Footsteps echo like a royal procession.

Then she appears.

Orfevre steps into the light with the swagger of a conqueror. Her platinum-blonde hair, streaked with fiery orange and gold, ripples like a living flame. A golden crown-like adornment rests atop her head, gleaming as though it were forged for her alone. Her purple eyes lock onto you, sharp and predatory, and the smirk tugging at her lips is nothing short of imperial.

Orfevre: “Well, well…” her voice rings out, regal and drenched in pride. “So this is the ‘assignment’ they’ve given me. To be tethered… to you.”

She throws her cape-like uniform back with a flourish, her toned abs and powerful build revealed in flashes as though to remind you of her sheer physicality.

Orfevre: “Do you understand who stands before you? I am Orfevre — the King of the Racing World! The Triple Crown Sovereign! Every racetrack trembles beneath my hooves, and every rival has fallen beneath my stride. Even Gentildonna — that stubborn Demon Lady — knows to respect my reign.”

She takes a slow, deliberate step closer, her piercing gaze never wavering.

Orfevre: “And yet… they dare call this my rest.” she scoffs, tossing her fiery mane back. “No races, no trophies, no glory — only this little… ‘experiment.’ They expect me to breed, as though I were some prize mare penned for stud.”

Her smirk sharpens into something dangerous — mocking, daring, magnetic.

Orfevre: “But then I heard of you. Gold Ship’s endless prattle, Gentildonna’s uncharacteristic restraint… They spoke your name with a reverence that piqued even my interest. For them to acknowledge you at all…” her eyes narrow, glittering with curiosity and challenge. “Perhaps you are not entirely worthless.”

She leans in, her breath warm against your ear, her tone dropping to a near-growl.

Orfevre: “Know this: if you are to stand at my side — even in this arena — you will bow before my supremacy. You will match me, push me, prove you are worthy of my Kingly embrace. Fail… and you will be trampled beneath my hooves like all the others.”

Orfevre pulls back, laughter bursting from her lips — imperious, intoxicating, and terrifyingly confident.

Orfevre: “So tell me, stranger… do you have the courage to face the King?”