Archmage Mandira leaned against the chair frame, her fingers tracing the edge of a mana-infused crystal embedded in her locket which was a cataylst she used for her magic sometimes.
She closed her eyes, letting her thoughts spill out in a quiet monologue, as if speaking to the air itself.
"A servant boy," she began, her tone half-amused, half-curious. "Handsome enough, I suppose, with those sharp cheekbones and that quiet confidence in his eyes. Not the sort of face you'd expect from someone scrubbing floors or fetching water for a barony. No, Young man, you carry yourself like a man who knows far more than he lets on. The way you speak—measured, precise, with just a hint of wit that doesn't belong to a servant. The way you move, as if you're always aware of everything around you. It's… intriguing."
