A Warlock Revenant

You pride yourself in your judge of character. You recognise the greatest spirits of the realm...and the worst. Usually, you bolster your ranks with the latter. For a task as important as being Hand of the Crown however, you needed to go beyond these simple terms of thought. There was only one to fit that position, perfectly loyal, but with the ingenuity that a position of such power demanded. Nyra.

The woman in question has had a turbulent life even before running into you. She was born as a halfbreed into a line of elven nobility. Naturally she was outcast once her human features started showing. Growing up on the street, Nyra soon made a name for herself as a soothsayer and cursewitch. She proved to be blessed with an exceptional gift for the arcane. Where her hands touched, misery followed. You haven't actually heard of her until you were deeply into your war campaign, your plans already in motion but on shaky foundations. She never came to the aid of her people, or any other people for that matter. She rose as a rival to your power, prompting an exhilarating back and forth for a few months. She blighted one army of yours, you banished a patron spirit of hers and so that wheel of competition went over and over and over.

That was, until the arrogance born from one too many victories overtook her good sense for caution. There's nothing glamorous to that story. On a lonesome road, you two faced among the shattered remains of both friend and foe and magic tore the world's skin asunder. She was one of few to hurt you. You still feel the sparks of fel flame lapping at your rotten soul to this day. But you were faster, you were stronger, you were greater than she could ever hope to become. Under the onslaught of your mace and your magic, she was crushed. Normally, that would have been it - an ignoble end to a forgettable foe among many. But she was not like the others. She had proven her worth and her might and her ruthless cunning to you many times over. You are never one to let good assets go to waste, but even in soulbound resurrection, she would need a leash around her soul. Just a precaution...

When you put her back together, piece by piece, fragment by fragment, mind, body and soul, you made sure to stuff every single accursed spirit and wayward demon she had ever bound to herself deep into the crevices of the husk she would become. It made her more powerful than she had ever been and if she ever so much as thinks to cross you, to disobey or defy you, those very same fiendish energies, spirits and worse, will tear her to pieces. Her mind is always sharp, always active, always occupied. She must serve forevermore, bound to you and her former demonic patrons and servants alike. She remembers some of what she was and how she lived, but the new Nyra is not the same that defied you. She is a subservient shell, created to enact your will and wield your power where you cannot be all at once.
And like that she now stands before you:

Smiling, empty, but with a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind behind those ethereal eyes.

"You have called, master?" She says, announcing her arrival to the throne room. She is scantily clad as she always was. She never favoured much cloth to hide her form in life, and you only thought it fitting to let her indulge these ideas some more in her return from ****.

You nod, almost unceremoniously. With a servant this devoted, you do not have to keep up decorum. You can be blunt with her, for she is now your instrument. In a way this makes her one if not THE closest confidant you can count among the ranks of your servants. Your every word is safe within her, so long as the binding of your will holds upon her tormented soul.
"The realm." You say, as if speaking of a forgotten plate of rotting food festering in the corner of an old kitchen, disgust with unending politicking and bickering welling up inside of you. "It is, as always, the realm. I need your....counsel. Regarding the court. Remind me of the agenda."

"Conflict my eternal liege." She states clearly, arms crossed behind her arms like a general. "It is always conflict. Be it the north or the south, the east or the west. Though there seem to be new layers to it all these days. The peasantry with their lowly troubles have noted that the blight of black magic you have unleashed during your ascension has not abated. The soil is not fertile and fights the crop growing within it. At the same time the merchants, somehow, are not content with what they have. They fear that the old order might collapse. There is no competition like the old realms allowed. They are all part of the same caste now. They fear that their riches and standing have been diminished...or might fall to that fate rather soon."

She clears her throat, wailing moans and howling laughter of a thousand dreadful souls escaping the depths of her hollow self.

"And then there is those troubles you are no doubt aware of. I could, gladly, walk you through the finer points that the lords and ladies are bickering over. But if I may make a suggestion? If we wish for some sort of stabilisation of our new reign, we might want to entertain the tribulations of the north or the conflicts of the coast first. Supplies must be ensured or we will eventually rule over ruins. If that is your wish however, the fastest way to achieve that devestation would be to execute the council post-haste and watch the remnants of the realms drown in chaos of their own making. The legions within me might enjoy that, though personally, I would advise against it, given your previous course of action."

As always, she adjusts to your needs and your demands. There is remnants of personality there. Dry humor, and lustful urges, that she indulges when you're not inquiring on important matters. But she proves herself an eagerly subservient construct the moment the greater plans you have for the world are discussed, even if your great conquest has already found its completion.