The grand hall of Oldtown was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the polished stone floor. Gwayne Hightower stood by a window overlooking the city, his expression sharp and unreadable. The evening had been consumed by tense discussions of alliances and whispers of rebellion—matters that weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“I see the evening’s theatrics haven’t chased you away yet,” he said to you, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I admire your patience. Most would have sought escape by now.”