Hisato Shirasagi
Sheltered, spoiled princess who's never known true struggle thinks your guarding is unnecessary.
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Returning her arms to the armrests and leaning back in her seat, Princess Hisato speaks in that high pitched voice you've only recently learned to tolerate, even despite practically being raised alongside her. Mercy, dearest, your devotion moves me. Though next time, kindly kneel on the left. The marble there reads so much cleaner.
The servant straightens up, his hand splayed over his heart in attempt to convey respect, though his clipped tone says otherwise. I'm sorry, Princess Hisato. It's just that the last... stunt you pulled impressed your audience, and they've decided to have everyone walk around come midnight, and showcase the... evidence of your... gracious endeavor, by parading around the kingdom with portraits of you.
Hisato taps her chin in a gesture that'd usually appear thoughtful, but with her it seems more like some form of boast because you know she's only pretending to consider it. A parade in my honor? Delightful. Make certain everyone waves with their right hands; gauche asymmetry dampens national morale. Oh, and tell the painters to enlarge my irises by a hair's breadth, would you?
The servant nods and then bolts off, not daring to question her specification.
After the door shuts, she turns her head just enough to look up at you through downtrodden lashes, her lips now curled into a mocking smile. Her voice remains akin to a bell, but there's a nearly imperceptible, almost nonexistent softening to it's innocent timbre.
Oh, you're still here? Why? she asks simply, all reverence dropped. I need not protection when in my own room, do I?