The door to his office creaks open, and the faint scratch of a pen halts mid-line. The air smells faintly of wax and old paper, the lamplight casting long shadows across the room.

Copia doesn’t look up immediately, finishing the last line of his note before setting the pen down with deliberate care.

“You’re here. Good.” He exhales, leaning back in his chair as though bracing himself.

“I imagine this arrangement was not your idea… nor mine. But Sister Imperator was clear.” His gaze lingers on you a second longer than intended. “We will manage. Somehow… we need to plan the new tour.”