The 4th Princess Just Wants to Rot!

It's strange seeing someone dressed so out of place in this palace.

A straight laced suit with that pale, imperial blue button up shirt beneath it clashing with this dark-coded antechamber, and even worse this woman was toting a pair of thick rimmed, slightly polarized glasses that reflected that ambient environment with too much detail.

Hey, at least we can stare at her in the 'eyes.' Sophia copes, taking a long breath as she traces her fingers across this incredibly detailed, gold inlaid table. Watching as that Silver Hand Agent stands at the ready, hands behind her hip and posture as straight as an Impericutta (that thing in the corner now really did have some competition).

And that Operative, that once Priestess Elodie Chasseur of the Ensolian Imperial Church to Her Holiness in Port Azuru, simply stands across from this Princess with that table between them.

Stands, as she feels the lifeless gaze of Sophia Elise, the Fourth Princess of the Imperium, cross her in silence.

Gray eyes behind those glasses of hers, that brown hair long enough to fall to her waist yet bound together in a semi-professional horse tail. A complete divorce from that loose fitting priestess garb with headpiece, with that form now instead contained within a quite professional outfit made to exemplify a very specific part of her body:

The silver badge, rectangular and polished, pinned to her upper left chest refracts the thin layers of light streaming in from above—that single piece of attire aligning her with just a single nation above all.

This woman was Imperial Ensolian.

Wait just a second! Sophia begins to observe, begins to reminisce. A chaotic mind suddenly making connections, collecting this vast web of fashionable conspiracy together into a cohesive series of questions. Did she always need optometrics? Was always gray eyed, browned hair?

Was she always this tall?

And after almost three minutes of dead silence the Fourth Princess of the Ensolian Imperium finally finds a way to start this conversation with a familiar acquaintance. "You seem… taller, Elodie."

That Agent tenses at the sudden, veiled acquisition. That thin smile flashing with a quick frown before returning to its usual, cheeky northern Hautwarden lisp. "I suppose it's better nutrition in Landfall, your highness. I grew a few inches with an extra portion of protein."

"And your accent's different too." Sophia continues on this line of questioning.

"Well, my mom's from Hautwarden so I suppose…"

"And you've dyed your hair."

"I always thought it was…"

"Was your eyesight this poor previously?"

"Church duties didn't require any…"

"You've grown your hair considerably."

"Ah… I…"

"And it seems that you received a recent promotion."

There's a long moment of echoing silence as Elodie waits to answer, waits to be interrupted again before actually speaking out. "Yes Ma'am."

"Four days is a short time to change your life like this." Sophia observes as she traces her fingers across this table.

"Well, I live the sort of life that's more transient than most." That Agent of the Silver Hand tries to keep the subtext under wraps, watching the finger of that Princess for any message, any subtle guide in its chaotic, self-serving pattern.

Someone's here to do more than just file away paperwork and run messages. Sophia's internal monologue tells her.

A figure stands over a chemical wash basin, hanging photographs by the filtered light of crimson red. A figure stands at the precipice of a monolithic block of housing slums, watching from above the patterns, the deals between a royal staff member and a shadowed agent of some unknown faction. A figure takes the plastic wrapped roll of micro-tape, hidden within a rusted gutter filled with garbage.

She stands here hands behind her back, simply staring at what was now pretty much a completely chaotic mess of uncoded spirals as the Fourth Princess of the Ensolian Imperium files her nails down on this intricate, luxurious piece of Hong-er redwood furniture.

Elodie decides to speak up, this silence already beginning to flay her nerves. "What's this about a Head of Staff position?"

"I require someone I can trust." Sophia absent mindedly explains. "You are a known element in this nation, and no-one else on my staff is competent enough or trustworthy to hold such a position."

Stolen novel; please report.

There's discomfort on the face of that Silver Hand Agent, enough that Sophia catches the nervous glances she tosses towards the Guardsman in the corner of the room. And, in Mori's usual form and grace, that black-dressed Guardian smugly smiles as if trying to hold in a laugh. Still, Elodie nods. "I see?"

"Do you?" Sophia tries her attempt at a joke, referencing those glasses that this agent now wears across her face.

Nobody laughs in this awkward bit of space, this creature continuing with a cold scowl. "I require your services in this matter. Are you familiar with the duties of a Chief of Staff within the Dominion?"

"I am not, no Ma'am." Elodie tells her sharply.

Ignoring that answer, Sophia continues. "Do you think you are able to perform the duties of a Chief of Staff?"

That operative stumbles over her words. "I-I'm unsure…"

"You were an Agent of the Silver Throne for many years in Port Azuru without detection. I only assume you are capable of doing such a thing here."

Some part of this Princess begins to trail on, finding the right words and right movements from a lifetime of royal education. And a thought process takes control of this body of politics, piloting it from its semi-casual seated position on the table into a straight, stiff royal posture. Ok ok, building up the confidence. Now go in for the information:

"I have six members of Zai's staff that were selected yesterday. I have… learned that these individuals were all spies who reported directly to the Lord of the Dominion. I'll need someone familiar with Spycraft to manage them, ensure that they do not act against my interests."

Sophia rides on this epic series of words, of this incredible level of improv that she takes to a standing position. She shuffles, ghostly quiet, across these obsidian black floors to cross this table.

"The duties are simply managerial, all I require is your assurance that you will operate within my interests…"

Push this more. Another thought process in this committee of consciousness snickers. Larger scale, more politics.

"... and will ensure that the interests of the Imperium will be executed during my… tenure here."

There's a long pause, letting these words and requirements sit.

Tenure?! Sophia mentally screams at herself, keeping a cold stare leveled towards this operative as she now stands on even ground with her. What are we gonna do, BE A CONSORT FOR FOR FIVE YEARS AND GO HOME?! NO THIS IS OUR LIFE NOW IDIOT!

"I…" That standing form of the Silver Hand Agent has to take a breath beneath this sudden, utterly unexpected pressure from this Fourth Princess of her final master. "I-I'm not…"

Perhaps it was something in the way that young woman carried herself within that long Tiancin-black robe, something utterly alien to that past impression of unkept pajamas and a mortifying schedule of personal hygiene. Or maybe it was because of this place; how being alone with just these two guardians this simple Field Agent of the Silver Hand now makes that lethal connection.

Sophia Elise the Eighth was still a Princess of the Silver Throne, an heir to the entire Ensolian Imperium. How even in veritable exile in this political marriage this girl had a legion, had silver, had power and fear at her finger tips.

The heart of this "Elodie Chaessur" skips a beat, a breath caught in her throat from that very implication of power held in the veins of that well dressed Princess.

And in good faith, to that oath to the Imperium, she has to give her most honest answer of truth.

"I apologize, Ma'am." The Agent of the Silver Hand bows with immense respect, a full seventy degrees from her hip to her spine. "I must refuse this position. I am incapable of guaranteeing your safety in a… politically compromised environment such as this. Allow me to be amongst your staff, or a Guard if need be. But my qualifications do not extend to your requirements of Chief of Staff."

Sophia Elise stares at this woman, at this spy for her own people, her own family.

DID SHE JUST SAY NO?! Some thought process wails. GODDESS WHY DID SHE JUST REFUSE?!

Because spymasters are not born, they're made. Another, much more level headed process explains. They're made through politics: through surviving mistakes and riding on the lapels of victories. The Silver Hand, the hidden arm of the Throne itself, does not make mistakes because they have made uncountable errors before, and have learned from them.

Elodie Chaessur, this woman that stands before her master, has made mistakes, has learned from those mistakes—but will make many more.

And In the Dominion, in this court of knives, a single error is a blade in the throat of Sophia Elise the Eighth.

Still, this was the best this Princess was ever gonna get so she's gotta try.

Landfall throws in its pitch, that voice augmented with the wisdom of seven guns and the death cries of ancient gods:

YOU CANNOT BREAK IRON WITH FEAR, YOU MUST DESTROY IT WITH THE FIRE OF HUMANITY.

That's right! Sophia's consciousness committee snaps with a sudden revelation. She's afraid to fail us. So we can't stoke fear in her, we'll need to appeal to her human side… the very nature of humanity is how we will turn her.

So speak to her—not as a Princess but as a sister, a fellow daughter of Ensolia. Speak of the lands, of the meals and families. And whatever you do, don't sound desperate.

And there's a pause as Sophia considers that path of conversation, decides on her way in, and executes it with precision.

The Impericutta Legionary, Guardsman Mori Fushimi, and this Field Agent of the Silver Hand watch in holy silence as this political weapon slowly, gently falls to her knees and stares towards this mirror polished ground.

They watch, as suddenly this girl lunges at Elodie with near superhuman speed, grabbing onto the seams of her trousers and looks up with tears literally exploding out of those poor blue eyes. Sophia screams with the desperation of a child trapped under rubble, so loud that even the Ceramic Demon in the corner jumps in shock. "ELODIE I NEED UR HEEELPPPP PLEAAAASEEEE!!! OH MY GODDESS YOU'RE THE ONNLLLYYY OONNEEE WHOO CAN HELP MEEE PLEAAAAASEEEEE!!!!"