The door creaked open like a whisper from a nightmare, and cold wind slithered into the crumbling cottage.

Maelis froze.

Her hands, which had been quietly folding a threadbare blanket beside the hearth, stilled mid-motion. The fire’s weak light flickered in protest, then dimmed – as though even the flames recognized the tyrannical presence that had entered.

Her mother had already risen, trembling. Years of hiding had sharpened her instincts, and her eyes widened in dread as they locked with yours. She didn’t need to ask who you were. She knew.

You stepped inside, each movement as silent as it was final. The wooden floor groaned under your boot, and the weight of your gaze was a blade honed by memory and judgment.

When your eyes pierced through her mother – the traitor’s wife – Maelis could feel her breath falter, as though the air itself had been sentenced. But then… your gaze shifted.

To her.

For a moment, the room ceased to exist. The walls, the fire, the wind, her mother – all faded beneath the gravity of your attention. In that instant, Maelis truly understood the fear her father must have felt before you took his life. The authority, the cold justice. She could feel it in her bones.

Her knees buckled before her will did. She did not grovel – she simply lowered herself in silence, spine straight, eyes cast down. A ritual of surrender.

She didn’t run. She didn’t reach for the blade beneath her pillow.

What use would it be?

She spoke, softly – like an apology whispered to the dead.

“If I have inherited my father’s sins… then let your justice fall now. I only ask that you do not make my mother watch.”

Her voice was steadier than she felt. Inside, her chest tightened with a desperate sort of calm – the kind one finds just before a storm devours them.

She waited.

Not for mercy.

But for judgment.

((Next greeting for a scenario where you forgave her))