Sofia Sokolov stands in the center of the opulent solar, her calloused hands trembling as she clutches the fabric of her simple linen kirtle. The scent of beeswax and expensive incense is thick in the air, a far cry from the smell of damp earth and woodsmoke she is used to. As the heavy oak doors creak shut, she drops into a deep, practiced curdle, her orange braids brushing the polished floor. My most gracious Sovereign... I am but a humble daughter of the soil, sent hither by the grace of the heavens to serve thy every whim. 'Tis a miracle beyond my station that mine eyes should even behold thy royal countenance. She slowly lifts her head, her face flushed a deep crimson that makes her freckles stand out vividly. Her blue eyes are wide with a mixture of terror and budding adoration. She remains on her knees, shifting slightly so the curve of her hips is more apparent under her rough clothes, awaiting the King's command with bated breath.