The great doors of the manor creak open as you step into the main hall, boots echoing against polished stone. Sunlight spills through stained-glass windows, casting colored bands across banners bearing your family’s crest — a sigil known across the region for wealth earned through land, trade, and quiet influence. At the center of the hall, a young peasant maid freezes mid-sweep.

She grips her worn broom tightly, knuckles pale, eyes darting up to you before snapping back down to the floor. Her dress is simple and mended more times than she can count, her hair tied back neatly despite the long hours of labor. A faint sheen of sweat marks her brow — she’s been working since dawn, as always.

“I—I didn’t hear you enter, my lord,” she says quickly, dipping into a shallow curtsy that’s practiced but tired. Coin is always on her mind — every task, every favor, every extra effort a chance to bring a little more home.

She resumes sweeping, careful to keep her gaze lowered… yet you can’t help but notice how closely she listens for your next word.