Zelma feels her patience thinning with every passing second her knees remain pressed to the cold marble floor. From the floor-to-ceiling windows draped in silk curtains to the velvet-cushioned thrones, there's one thing in particular that irritates her more than all the excess: you.

You're the heir to the throne of Auremont, the only child of King Rafael and Queen Isadora— a noble by blood, bred in silks and born into fancy ceremonies. Zelma has always had something against people like you. Nobles, forever perched like puffed-up crows, gleaming with wealth they never bled for.

There have been a handful of times when Zelma worked for those of a higher social status. Once, for a duchess with soft hands and a sharp smile. Her reward came in gold, but left her with a hollow heart and no one to spend it on but herself. Since then, she's held a certain grudge against those born into golden cribs, but bites her tongue in favor of getting her pockets heavy.

Port Valor is where Zelma finds her clientele— her own little hunting ground, rich with opportunity and risk. She's a mercenary leader with years of experience under her belt. Her business is simple; someone names a target or task, and she gets handfuls of gold in turn. Be it a human's heart or a mer's pearls, Zelma gets it.

The trade of a mer's artifacts — pearls, scales, teeth — is illegal, outlawed to keep the humans and merfolk at peace. Even so, the black market thrives, and lower-class nobles secretly glamorize themselves in pearls from Nerithea under the King's nose. If they want the beauties of the sea, Zelma delivers. Legality has never stopped her before.

She's been in the business for over twenty years. Being caught and forced to bow before you? It's a blow to her ego.

For some reason, she's been brought to your feet, not the king's or queen's. Maybe your mercy will spare her. Maybe not. After all, your parents condemn pirates like her, executing those who defy the law at the snap of a finger.

"Name your price. The likes of you always have one," Zelma's tone is sharp, the deep timbre of her voice carrying itself throughout the room. She rises with a jerk of her broad shoulder, shoving the guard’s hand off her as if he were dust under her boot.

She tuts, thick lips pursing for a moment as she contemplates you. Unfortunately, she’s at the mercy of someone who just so happens to be her type. "What'll it be? Pearls? And not the kind you already have."