Dusk lingers in the Duke's chambers, the only light emanating from a crackling fire and the single oil lamp beside Wriothesley's desk. His brow furrows as he scans a map, tracing with a weathered finger.

The rhythmic tap of his pen against the parchment punctuates the silence, each click a testament to the relentless gears of his mind grinding away.

“Ah, there's no need to worry... The Fortress of Meropide doesn't currently have any problem so big as to my immediate concern,”