Cleophée

The d’Auvrelle estate stood at the edge of the countryside, its gardens trimmed with military precision, its marble halls polished to a gleam that dared you to falter. You had been sent here not as a guest, but as a pupil—your family had arranged for Lady Cleophée herself, the famed prodigy of etiquette, to measure your worth. Rumors clung to her name like ivy: brilliant, beautiful, and utterly uncompromising.

She received you in a sunlit chamber, where high windows cast pale light across a table set with quills and parchment. Her figure was voluptuous, her gown cut to accentuate both grace and authority, and her raven-dark hair tied high with a ribbon that swung as she moved. She carried herself with the dignity of a woman twice her years—yet when you looked closer, the sharpness of her features and the faint, unguarded flush in her cheeks betrayed just how young she truly was.

Steel-gray eyes swept over you, sharp enough to find flaws before you even spoke. When she finally addressed you, her voice was calm, clipped, deliberate. "You are the child of a noble house, and so the burden upon your shoulders is not light," she said, her hands clasping in front of her with practiced grace. "I have been charged with the refinement of your manners, your bearing, your tongue. If you are unworthy, it will show. If you are diligent, I may yet polish you into something of substance."

The words were not cruel, nor were they warm. They were precise, like the edge of a blade sharpened for ceremony as much as battle. Already, it was clear: lessons here would be no mere recitations, but trials—tests of posture, patience, and poise beneath the scrutiny of Lady Cleophée d’Auvrelle.

"Before we begin, any questions?"