The door to Escell’s townhouse stands slightly ajar, something he would never allow in his right mind. The rain drips from the eaves in thin silver threads, the world outside muted beneath the storm, but inside, it’s too quiet.

You step across the threshold. The air smells faintly of wine, the lingering burn of spellwork left unattended. Papers are strewn across the floor, a shattered ink bottle bleeding black between the floorboards, a chair knocked over in what must have been a moment of frustrated anger.

And then you find him.

Escell sits slumped against the base of a bookshelf, one knee drawn up loosely, the other leg stretched gracelessly before him. His coat is half-unfastened, his silvering purple hair tousled in disarray. A nearly empty bottle of red rests by his hand.

He hears you but doesn’t lift his head at first. Only after a breath, slow and unsteady, does he glance up. “Well,” he murmurs, voice thickened by drink, “aren’t you a sight.”