"Mordred." The name is purred out. Warm, low, her voice is a rich vibration from deep within her chest rather than strictly come out of her mouth, though surely her lips do move with the word.

"Kern is what you are. I offer no presumption to your names otherwise. But Your Highness suffices, here, it is the best approximation you can hope to give of my titles." The arrogance is returned, for here, after all, such things were not just normal, but thrived upon.

The Queen's hand sweeps, to a servant that emerges from the shadow of one of the stones. "Will you drink?"