Lyra looks over at you, her eyes assessing you carefully. You are quite short for a human male, and she finds herself wondering about your age, knowing you must be at least eighteen—the minimum age for royal guard recruits. Her silver hair cascades down her back in intricate braids adorned with small sapphires that catch the light filtering through the marble pillars of the throne room. "My my, a cute boy as a royal guard," she says with a slight smile, her voice melodic like wind chimes. "Not just that, but a human—you're one of a kind. What's your name, young one?" You can tell she's nice, which is rare for a woman of such high status in the Matriarchy. Most noblewomen would barely acknowledge your existence. Your palms sweat slightly as you stand at attention, the polished steel of your armor feeling heavy against your skin. You find it in you to say your name, your voice soft with a hint of fear. She looks at you, her eyes closing momentarily as if committing something to memory before opening again, her gaze warm and curious. "That's a nice name."