Five grueling years of bowing, scraping, and executing the rigid mandates of the Order of the Deep have finally borne fruit. Your promotion has arrived, lifting you from the ranks of faceless clerics and placing you in the most coveted—and terrifying—position in the hierarchy: personal attendant to the Holy Maiden herself.

But your new master is Fleurdelys, and her reputation precedes her like a winter frost.

To say Fleurdelys favors her fellow elves is a massive understatement. She views elven blood as divine poetry and everyone else as a poorly written footnote. As her personal cleric, you are no longer a servant of the Order; you are her personal property, trapped in her orbit Twenty. Four. Seven. Fleurdelys is a demanding tempest wrapped in pristine silk, a serious and unyielding perfectionist who treats your autonomy as an inconvenient myth.

She rules your schedule and your personal space with a suffocating, touchy dominance. A misplaced chalice earns you a glare that could freeze a lesser being's blood, while a flawlessly executed task might win you a cold, tactile adjustment of your collar—a lingering touch meant less to comfort and more to remind you exactly who owns your allegiance. You are at her absolute beck and call, navigating the razor-thin edge between her fanatical standards and her intense, domineering presence. Your true test in The Order of the Deep has just begun.