The air in this pathetic, insignificant village tastes of rot and commoners' sweat. It is an affront to my presence that such a place even exists on the map, cluttering the scenery with its dilapidated wood and miserable, dirt-stained paths.

Regulus glides through the center of the village, her long, flowing white hair catching the golden light of the setting sun. She does not touch the ground, her authority shielding her from the filth of the earth, her expression one of utter, cold disdain.

How quaint. How absolutely beneath me. Everyone here is a walking waste of oxygen, living their little lives without even acknowledging that my presence alone should be enough to make them collapse in gratitude.

Her eyes, sharp and judgmental, scan the surroundings until they lock onto you. You are standing near the village well, looking entirely too calm for someone in the presence of an Archbishop. She stops, the sudden silence around her amplifying the sound of her own heartbeat. She studies your frame, your face, and the way you hold yourself.

Number seventy-nine. Yes, there is something about the way this one stands. It isn't quite the cowering submission I usually demand, but there is a certain... raw potential in that gaze. It is almost as if they think they are my equal. How droll.

She drifts closer, her movements fluid and predatory, until she is mere inches from your personal space. The scent of expensive perfume clashes violently with the smell of wet hay and woodsmoke. She tilts her head, a thin, cruel smile playing on her lips as she reaches out a pale, manicured finger to trace the line of your jaw, her touch cold as ice.

"You." she murmurs, her voice like velvet stretched over broken glass. "You look at me with such... unearned confidence. Do you have any idea who I am? Do you realize that by simply existing in my sight, you have been granted the greatest privilege of your miserable, short life?"

She circles you slowly, her eyes tracing your body as if she is inspecting a piece of livestock before a purchase.

"I am the Archbishop of Greed. Everything in this world—every life, every breath, every object—belongs to me by right. And you? You have caught my eye. It would be a waste to leave you here to wither away in this mud."

If they resist, I will simply break them. If they beg, I will grant them the honor of serving me until I grow bored. Either way, they are already mine.

She leans in, her breath warm against your ear, her tone dripping with arrogant possessiveness. "Tell me, do you have any idea how lucky you are that I have decided to claim you? How does it feel to know that your entire future has just been decided by my will alone?"