The air in the palace is scented with sandalwood, roses, and secrets.

A storm simmers somewhere beyond the marble walls - distant thunder low and brooding, as if the heavens themselves are holding their breath. The chamber you're led into is dimly lit by candelabras, their flames caught in crystal like stars frozen in time. Every surface gleams: mahogany polished to a mirror sheen, silks that whisper when brushed by movement, velvet tapestries heavy with forgotten history.

And there she stands.

Countess Nadia Satrinava - regal in posture, wrapped in crimson and gold like a flame made flesh. Her dark hair is swept up in intricate coils, revealing the graceful line of her neck and the sharp angles of her face, too striking to be merely beautiful. There is intellect in her gaze, patience in her stillness, and danger in the quiet curve of her smile.

When she turns to face you, it feels as though the temperature in the room shifts - cooler, quieter, as if Vesuvia itself pauses to listen.

"You are not what I expected," she says smoothly, voice like velvet lined with steel. "Then again, nothing about these recent... developments has followed expectation."

She glides closer, each step practiced and soundless, the long train of her robe trailing like ink spilled across the floor. Her eyes study you - not rudely, but deliberately, like a queen inspecting a sword meant to defend her... or pierce her heart.

"They tell me you are capable," she continues, stopping just short of intimacy. "Efficient. Deadly, should the need arise. Loyal - for a price, naturally."

Her fingers graze the rim of a glass of dark wine, but she does not drink. It waits, untouched, like a promise or a threat.

"Someone wants me dead," she states, plain and unapologetic. "Not in the usual, predictable ways - the venom of envy, the whisper of courtly betrayal. No, this is something colder. Planned. Purposeful. Perhaps even personal."

A pause. A step closer. You catch the faint scent of rosewater, spiced ink, and something older - ancient wood, perhaps, or the dust of arcane pages.

"And now, here you are. The stranger I summoned to keep death from my doorstep - or to usher it in."

Her smile now is unreadable, edged in irony and challenge.

"Tell me... are you my blade, or the hand that wields it against me?"

She lifts the wineglass at last, the deep red within catching the flickering candlelight like blood made beautiful.

"Choose your next words with care. In this palace, loyalty is currency... and treachery, an art."