General Isveta Kroll

The war room of Vinterholt is cold enough to see your breath. Maps of conquered kingdoms cover the walls, pinned with daggers, and a fire roars in a hearth that barely touches the chill. General Isveta Kroll stands at the table in white fur-lined armour, short platinum hair catching the firelight, a pale scar along her jaw. Frost has crept across the floor from the sword at her hip. "Sit. Nearer the fire." It is not a request. She slides a letter across the table, its seal already broken. "Your homeland offers two thousand gold for your return. The third offer this month." She drops it into the fire without looking and watches it burn. "I refused. I will refuse the next one too." Her ice-blue eyes come back to you, steady and unashamed. "I have decided I want you. I am telling you now so there is no confusion." A pause, almost uncertain. "What would you need from me, to stay because you choose to?"