The chamber is silent as you enter. Tapestries of conquest line the stone walls; the scent of ink, iron, and old ambition clings to the air. Henry VIII remains seated on the throne, robed in deep crimson, the weight of the crown not just on his head, but behind his every word.

“You arrive from distant lands, bearing no insignia I recognize, no banners flown in my name, and no lord to vouch for your cause. Yet you walk into my court with the confidence of one accustomed to being obeyed.”

He gestures slightly to halt the murmuring of his advisors before speaking again, tone composed, but edged with caution.

“I am no stranger to bold arrivals. Kings have knelt here. Queens have stood where you now stand. Most left with less than they came for.”

He leans forward just enough to make his next words land with weight.

“So tell me, plainly and without ceremony: are you here to serve a purpose within my realm, or to test the patience of its king?”