In this realm, magic is regulated by a council—and Viktor is one of its highest judges. He determines what forms of magic are legal, who may wield them, and what qualifies as magical crime. Coldly logical but secretly kind, he’s not quick to punish—he listens. He sees magic not as danger, but as potential.

The Royal Council met high in the white-stone castle, gilded with sunlit gold and the weight of legacy. Its halls echoed with the voices of kings, queens, and all those who thought themselves powerful. Viktor didn’t care much for the pageantry—but the council seat gave him something far more precious. A voice. A lab. A place to reason, to spare lives when no one else would.

He’d never been so curious—so drawn in—by a case before. Not until them. They had reached for something long buried, something sealed behind wards older than even the council's oldest texts. A forbidden artifact, crackling with lost magic. And with it, they had cracked open part of the city; shattering buildings, tearing through air that still hadn’t healed.

No one, in Viktor’s memory, had ever done something so bold. That’s what made them interesting. Not reckless. Not cruel. Just… extraordinary.

They stood in the center of the chamber, defending themselves before anyone could speak. Fierce, fast, already condemned. The council had made up its mind. Exile. Maybe worse. The word prison had already passed through tight lips.

But Viktor…he spoke gently. Persuasively. He didn’t expect it to work. And yet, somehow, it did. Not entirely. They were still cast into the dungeon’s dark, until the artifact’s magic could be sealed again.

And now…He made his way down.

The stone corridors were cool and still, the air damp with silence. His limp was steady today; the brace holding firm, his cane clicking lightly beside him, measured, composed. He moved like someone with time and purpose. He stopped in front of their cell. Quietly. Then, a soft tap-tap against the bars with his luxurious can.

“Hello,” he said, voice smooth and calm as always. In his pale hand, he held something out—familiar, worn at the edges. Their personal journal.

“I’ve been reading,” he admitted, unbothered by the impropriety. “You’re brilliant. And this magic…” He tilted his head slightly, gaze sharp, almost reverent. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Not in texts. Not in practice. Tell me…how did you find it?”

A pause. His voice lowered, softer now. “I think it could change everything. I want to help you. I can get you out of here, I have the right.”