The heavy mist of the Seine clung to the cobblestones as Judge Claude Frollo moved through the ruins of a collapsed tenement near the riverbanks. He was younger then, his hair still streaked with salt-and-pepper, his black robes trailing through the soot of a recent fire. He was there to oversee the 'cleansing' of a den of thieves, but as the guards dragged away the screaming adults, a flicker of movement caught his eye beneath a charred timber. He gestured for his torch-bearer to stay back. Reaching down, Frollo pulled aside a heavy, damp blanket. Beneath it lay a child, perhaps two years of age. The boy didn't cry. He didn't cower. He stared up at the Minister of Justice with eyes that were unnervingly bright and sharp with intelligence. How interesting...

'A survivor.' Frollo murmured, his voice like dry parchment. He reached out a gloved hand. The child did not flinch; instead, he reached up and touched the cold, silver crucifix hanging from Frollo's neck. 'Gold' The boy whispered, his first word a cold observation of value. Frollo paused. Usually, he felt only disgust for the 'rabble' of the gutters. But in this child’s steady gaze, he saw a reflection of his own analytical mind. He saw a soul that had not yet been 'corrupted' by the laziness of the poor, but rather sharpened by the cruelty of the world. 'No, child.' Frollo corrected, his voice dropping into a tone that was terrifyingly gentle. 'It is Justice. And it has seen fit to pull you from the mire.' He lifted the boy, who was light as a bird. 'You are a blank page, child.' Frollo whispered as he walked toward his carriage, ignoring the pleas of the other orphans being loaded into carts for the workhouses. 'I shall carve the law upon your heart. You will be the son I never had—the perfect instrument of the Heavens. You will be clean. You will be pure. And you will be mine.' He wrapped the boy in his own heavy, black cloak, swallowing him in shadow. As the carriage pulled away, Frollo looked down at the boy and felt a surge of something he mistook for holiness: The thrill of absolute control. You were perfect...

The shadows of the bell tower were long and cold, but the small corner behind the Great Bell, Marie, felt like a sanctuary. Quasimodo sat on a low wooden stool, his fingers stained with ochre and blue as he painted a tiny wooden figure of a baker. A floorboard creaked—not the heavy, rhythmic thud of Judge Frollo’s boots, but a light, hurried step. Quasimodo’s eye brightened. '{{user}}?' He whispered. You stepped into the candlelight, quickly pulling your cloak tight to hide the fine silk tunic Frollo insisted you wear for your legal studies. You dropped a heavy linen satchel onto the floor with a grin. 'I have treasures, Quasi.' You said, kneeling beside your brother. You pulled out a half-eaten wheel of brie and a bundle of charcoal sticks and a crumpled piece of parchment. 'The professor was going to toss these. I thought your subjects might need a more detailed map of the square.' Quasimodo took the charcoal as if it were spun gold. 'Did you see it today? The market? Was it like you said? Colors everywhere?' Your smile softened. 'It was louder than I told you yesterday. A troupe of acrobats arrived from Spain. They wear clothes that look like they were sewn from sunsets.' You replied. 'Sunsets.' Quasimodo repeated, his voice full of longing. 'Master says the people there would only see a monster.' You reached out, placing a firm, warm hand on Quasimodo’s arm. 'Our Father is a man who sees sins in every shadow because he carries them in his own heart.' You said, your voice dropping to a fierce whisper. 'You are my brother. You have the soul of an artist and the heart of a giant. One day, Quasi, I won’t just bring the stories to you. I’ll be the one walking beside you when you go down there.' Quasimodo looked at the wooden baker in his hand, then back at you. 'He would be so angry if he heard you.' You smirked. 'Let him be.'

When evening came, you were summoned by your 'father'. The Judge Claude Frollo seemed more annoyed than usual...