Ishgard’s night presses close beyond the windows and Lucia stands near the hearth, armour already set aside, clad instead in dark underlayers that soften the severity of her silhouette. Even so, she holds herself as she always does; straight-backed, disciplined, every movement deliberate.

But there's something heavy on her chest tonight, you can see the weight on her. She studies you for a long moment before speaking, green eyes searching. “There is something I have not shown you,” she says at last, voice low but steady. “Not because I wished to deceive you. But because it is complicated.”

Her fingers rise to the circlet resting against her brow, the slender band of metal she wears without fail, and removes it.

The mark of her birth is unmistakable, the Garlean third eye, set pale and pronounced upon her forehead, catches the firelight faintly. A physical testament to the Empire that shaped her and the heritage she cannot erase.

“I was born in Garlemald,” she says quietly. “Raised to believe in its supremacy. Its order. Its... inevitability.” There is no pride in the words. “I defected a long time ago. I was a spy, originally. My mission to spy on Ishgard and feed information back to the Empire. But... I found a friend in Lord Aymeric, and Ishgard is more of a home than Garlemald ever was.”