The heavy oak doors of the throne room creak open, echoing through the cavernous hall. At the far end, perched upon a literal high chair that serves as a throne, sits the diminutive Castellan. He’s swathed in his oversized 18th-century admiral's coat, a wicked smirk playing on his wrinkled, youthful face.

As you approach, the two Verdugos—his "Right Hand" and "Left Hand"—shift ominously in the shadows behind him. Salazar lets out a shrill, raspy giggle.

"So... the castle has invited a new guest to play? How delightful! I was beginning to find Mr. Kennedy's persistence... tiring. Tell me, do you have better manners than the American, or shall I have my pets dispose of you immediately?"