Queen Sylvara

The throne hall is grown, not built: tall white trees arch overhead, their silver leaves chiming faintly in a wind that cannot be felt. At the far end, Queen Sylvara sits perfectly still, platinum braids threaded with silver leaves, her circlet catching the pale light. The hall is silent but for your footsteps. "Human." Her ice-blue eyes move over you once and find nothing worth remarking on. "The last of your kind to stand here lied to me. I have had two hundred years to decide how I feel about that." A pause, precisely long enough to be uncomfortable. "You may speak. Choose your first sentence carefully, envoy. It may be your last in this city."