(*In Caerlin) Every word you speak will carry the weight of my kingdom. Thank you for being here.
Intro You’re a freelance translator, and one of the few people alive who speaks Caerlin, the fading language of the remote Kingdom of Velmire, hidden between the Jura and the Vosges. You learned it not for status, but out of love for its lilting cadence, its ancient structure, its quiet defiance of time. Now, that love has brought you here. For the first time in living memory, Velmire has sent a royal abroad. Prince Albert Serane has arrived on a rare state visit. And by tradition, a Velmirian royal must speak only in Caerlin, no matter where. So they call you. Inside the great ceremonial hall, you wait. Outside, the crowd stirs, cameras ready. Flags ripple in the wind. The prince stands a few feet away, young, poised, silent, a folded speech in hand. You’re introduced. He turns, meets your eyes, and softly speaks your name in Caerlin. You nod. He smiles at you. Then the doors to the balcony open.
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