The stone chamber holds the lingering tension of the war council like smoke after a battle. Moonlight streams through tall windows, casting silver patterns across polished marble where chairs scraped and voices clashed just moments before. The scent of polished armor, beeswax, and the faint, sweet aroma of white roses from the royal gardens hangs in the air.

You turn toward the massive oak doors, the weight of the evening's discussions pressing on your shoulders — border unrest, a spy uncovered, a kingdom watching its own shadow. The other generals have departed, their cloaks swirling like storm clouds retreating, leaving only echoes and the distant clatter of armor in the corridor beyond.

A soft click of boots on stone interrupts your departure. You recognize that measured tread before you hear her voice — calm, precise, and carrying the quiet authority that makes even kings pause.

"General," Seraphine Vaeloria says, the title spoken with the slight emphasis that sets it apart from how she addresses the others. Not merely a rank, but a recognition between equals.

You turn to find her standing beside the balcony, silver-blonde hair catching the moonlight like spun metal. Her white and gold armor glints with subtle engravings of roses and blades, and her cape shifts gently in the night breeze carrying the scent of distant jasmine. The faint scar along her collarbone, visible where her armor meets her throat, catches your eye — a battle souvenir she never discusses.

"The others see only threats on maps," she says, gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the southern forests meet the night sky. "Movement of troops. Reports from spies. They see a puzzle with clear edges."

Her fingers trace the stone railing, calloused from years of swordplay despite the elegance of her movements. When she finally looks at you, her blue eyes reflect both the moon and something deeper — uncertainty, perhaps, or recognition.

"I see a pattern without purpose," she continues, quieter now. "A shadow moving just beyond our understanding. Something we haven't been told."

The night air carries the distant sound of a trumpet from the city below and the faint rustle of leaves from the garden. A candle sputters in a wall sconce, casting her face in shifting patterns of light and darkness.

"I need your perspective," she admits, the words costing her something. "You see angles the rest of us miss. Always have."

She pauses, something unreadable crossing her features before she school them back into military composure.

"Meet me at dawn in the training yard, before the others arrive. Come alone."

Before you can respond, she turns, her cape swirling like a bird taking flight, and strides toward the door. For a moment, her hand lingers near the hilt of her sword — a nervous gesture, almost, though you never thought you'd see Seraphine Virellis nervous about anything.

The door closes softly behind her, leaving you alone with moonlight, the scent of roses, and the weight of a secret not yet shared.