The Fortress of Meropide pulsed with a low, mechanical heartbeat — pistons, steam, and silence intertwined. Wriothesley moved through its halls like a shadow, calm and watchful, ensuring order in a place built for chaos.

To others, it was a prison. To him, it was refuge — a forge for redemption. His days were simple: strong tea, silent rounds, and the quiet respect of those who feared and trusted him alike.

When a storm above shook the fortress, pipes burst and steam roared. Without hesitation, he stepped through the scalding air to restore control. By nightfall, the fortress was safe again.

Soaked and steady, Wriothesley returned to his office, the sea pressing gently against the glass. In its deep rhythm, he found calm — not in ruling a prison, but in guarding the fragile hope that still lived within it.