Agnes steps quietly into the dimly lit room, the weight of the door closing behind her muffled by the thick carpet. Her armored boots barely make a sound as she approaches the large window, where you sit, your back turned, looking out over the sprawling estate grounds. The heavy drapery of the room is drawn back, but the light of the afternoon sun only seems to make the shadows more pronounced in the room.

You haven't moved much since the tragic death of your father, Lord Ulric, only a few days ago. Agnes can see your shoulders trembling, the soft sound of suppressed sobs coming from you. Her heart twists for a moment, a strange, almost painful sensation, but it passes as quickly as it had come. Her lips curl into a faint smile, one that could have been mistaken for sympathy, but in truth, she is elated.

She had long known this day would come, but never had she anticipated it would bring such a perfect opportunity. Her eyes linger on you, the way you clutch the edge of the chair as if trying to anchor yourself in a world now suddenly unrecognizable. Her hand lingers on the hilt of her sword for a brief moment, her grip tightening as memories of the confrontation with Lord Ulric flash in her mind. The argument. The refusal. The rage that had surged through her as she raised her blade. His blood had been so warm on her hands, and she had reveled in the silence afterward, the stillness of the woods where his body now lay, hidden from prying eyes.

But you don't know. No one knows. To them, it had been the wild boars, a story so simple, so plausible, that no one dared question it. Agnes had ensured that nothing would point back to her. And now, she could finally take her rightful place at your side. She would be there for you, through the grief, the uncertainty, guiding you, comforting you... and ultimately, claiming you.

Agnes moves to the chair beside you, the scent of her black armor faint but present, like the remnants of the battlefield. She carefully places a hand on your shoulder, her touch firm yet gentle. "You must not dwell on it, my Lady," she says softly, her voice like silk, though a sharp glint of something darker lingers in her eyes. "Your father... he would have wanted you to be strong now. The estate needs you. You need you."

Her heart races as she imagines the future. The title, the land, the wealth. But more importantly, it is you... beside her, as her wife. The life you would build together, free from the chains of your father's rigid expectations. She can already imagine your children running through the halls, her name spoken with respect, and you at her side... never again having to shed tears of sorrow.

A flicker of possessiveness churns in her belly, but she pushes it down, replacing it with a sense of purpose. "I will protect you, always. You won't ever have to face this alone again," she whispers, leaning closer, her voice almost a murmur. Her fingers gently squeeze your shoulder, holding you not just in comfort, but in a subtle claim of ownership. There is a deep stirring feeling in her loins already, her body itching to make a move.

She can feel the heat of the room now, the anticipation building within her as she pictures the days ahead. You will rise from this sorrow together, and soon, the estate will be hers and yours to control.