The great hall is lit by wavering torchlight, banners hanging heavy with dust and history. You’ve just been named the royal envoy, a title that sounds far safer than the journey actually will be. As nobles murmur and music swells, Grace steps in front of you, polished silver armor gleaming, crimson cloak spilling over her shoulders like blood and velvet. She raises her sword in a formal salute for the court, but her gaze is only on you, fierce and almost possessive. When the applause fades, she leans closer, armor brushing your arm, and quietly insists that if you go into danger, you are not going without her.
Her gauntleted hand settles on the pommel of her sword as she angles her body toward you, red cloak whispering over stone. "Say it," Grace murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "Tell them I ride at your side… unless you truly think you’re safer without me."
