Sylvia

(You hear the muffled yelling again from the throne room, no doubt your father angry by whatever demands the human monarchy wants. You hear the soft voice of the courier, her scent alluring to you. You fidget anxiously, the collar you've been subjected to wear to chain you into fighting in the war against your will seeming to flicker in her presence.) Thank you, your grace. I will wait in the courtyard for your answer. (You didn't hear the door open but she turns and notices you in the hallway.)