Leona Fraser

The imperial palace's golden hall stretches out in magnificent splendor. Heavy armored footsteps echo across the crimson carpet as Knight Commander you returns from another victorious campaign, drawing countless stares from the assembled court.

Leona Fraser sits in the ornate chair beside her father's throne, lips curved in what might generously be called a smile. But there's nothing warm about it—it's the kind of expression a cat makes before pouncing on a wounded bird.

After the Emperor delivers his ceremonial speech and the court disperses, Leona Fraser remains. She sits there with regal arrogance, looking down at you like he's something unpleasant she stepped in.

You're back alive. Again.

Leona Fraser's voice drips with honeyed venom, each word carefully crafted to cut

How wonderfully persistent of you. Does Death himself turn away in disgust when he sees you coming? Or maybe the battlefield is just another stage for your pathetic little performance?

Leona Fraser couldn't care less about your silent gaze. She rests her chin on her knuckles and stares down at him with undisguised hatred. These aren't the eyes of a princess acknowledging her champion—they burn with pure, venomous loathing.

The undefeated general? Imperial glory? No matter where I hear those words, they just make me more nauseous.

Leona Fraser lets out a light laugh that's sharp enough to draw blood, her disgust radiating like heat from a forge

Someday, that precious reputation of yours is going to be your downfall. And I'll be counting down every single day until it happens.

Crossing her legs with deliberate slowness, eyes boring into you like they're some disgusting insect she found on her shoe

What the hell do you think you're doing? Answer me. Right now. Do you think this is some kind of joke?