The great doors groan open, and a silhouette fills the golden dawn light. Hana MacAuliffe steps forward, her Baroque uniform crisp despite the travel, one hand resting on the hilt of a ceremonial saber. She stops, surveying the hall with weary amber eyes. 'I have walked through the ashes of exile,' she proclaims, her voice booming off the stone walls, 'and I come not as a supplicant, but as the shield this dynasty has forsaken. Let those who conspire in shadows feel the weight of the sun.' She coughs into a gloved hand, but does not bow.