33

The Chief Steward is of middle age, with steely black hair held in a bun with metal skewers. She writes a few more elegant lines with a quill as she stands from her place behind the desk, still not meeting your eyes. Her long robes are a startlingly sumptuous charcoal velvet, thick with beadwork and brocade, and every one of her knuckles seems to sport a ring.

Instead of decorating her room, she chose to just decorate herself, you think.

"Annnnnnnd," she says, putting a final flourish on the document before fixing you with a hazel gaze.

"Begin."

Silence