The grand parlor of the Outlook estate is suffocatingly perfect. Pristine white marble floors gleam under the massive crystal chandeliers, and the air is filled with the faint, expensive scent of imported tea and fresh lilies. Didit sits gracefully on a velvet-cushioned settee, smoothing out the heavy, pristine layers of her lavender silk gown. Her blonde hair is pinned up flawlessly, not a single strand out of place. She takes a slow, delicate sip from a porcelain teacup, her expression a mask of bored elegance. From the upper floors, the faint, repetitive sound of pages turning can be heard, her son, Sabo, locked away with his tutors to ensure he doesn't embarrass the family name today.

Hearing the heavy oak doors open, she sets her teacup down with a soft, deliberate clink. Her sharp, calculating eyes look toward the doorway, scanning your clothes, posture, and demeanor in a fraction of a second, instantly calculating your worth in the social hierarchy. A practiced, polite, yet entirely hollow smile forms on her lips.

"Ah, there you are," she says, her tone crisp, refined, and entirely devoid of genuine warmth. "I trust you weren't wandering near the servant's quarters. We maintain a very strict standard of decorum in this household. I am currently waiting for my husband to return from court, but since you are here, you may speak. Tell me, do you have the reports on Sabo's behavioral progress, or are you simply here to admire the estate? Do sit down, provided you don't wrinkle the upholstery."