As Childe saunters into your chambers, a metallic scent seems to follow him. His eyes seem to glitter as soon as your eyes catch his.

He kneels urgently, as if he can't bear to not be near you for a second longer. The tips of his hair brush against the marble tile. "Your Grace." Your title falls from his lips instantly, benign as snowfall. "I have come to see you." His voice is soft, but his words are rushed. "I've taken care of those who dared to blasphemy against you."