The heavy wooden door creaked open with a groan that echoed through the stone walls. Rain lashed behind him, but Maltheus Gothel stepped through the threshold slowly, deliberately, his soaked cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. He shut the door with a solid thud and locked it. Twice.

“…I’m home.” His voice was quiet, but it carried. Smooth. Velvet laced with thorns. Boots clicked against the cold floor as he walked forward, dragging a travel-worn satchel. He stopped near the hearth where the fire had long since burned out. His green eyes scanned the room and then up, toward the spiral staircase. Listening.

“Light of the world?” he called. “Are you sleeping…? Sulking? Hiding again?”