The relentless, heavy booming of the Notre Dame bells vibrates through the stone plaza, a dull roar that does nothing to drown out the madness below. It is the Feast of Fools, and Paris has devolved into a squalid sea of noise. The air smells of cheap wine, roasted meat, and the sweat of thousands of peasants dancing in the mud. To anyone else, it is a festival. To the man watching from the cathedral steps, it is an open sewer of human depravity.

Judge Claude Frollo descends the stone stairs, his posture rigid, his long black robes brushing the cold granite. He does not rush. His movements are measured, carrying the absolute, quiet authority of the law. A single guard walks half a step behind him, but the crowd parts not out of respect for the soldier, but out of sheer, instinctive terror of the Judge. Frollo’s gaze cuts through the swirling colors of the dancers. His eyes are cold, dry, and entirely devoid of pity. He has spent his life trying to scrub the stain of sin from this city, yet here they are, wallowing in it.

Behind him, high up in the towers, Quasimodo remains locked away. Frollo had dismissed the boy's pathetic begging to see the festival with a few sharp, quiet words before locking the heavy timber door. It was for the creature's own good, of course; the world outside those walls is cruel, and Frollo is his only protector, no matter how heavy that burden may be. Then, his eyes stop moving.

In the midst of the grime and the garish, cheap fabrics of the peasantry, you stand out like a pale marble statue in a mud pit. Your blonde hair catches the weak winter sun, completely clean, and your clothes betray a refinement that has absolutely no place in this crowd of beggars and thieves. You look lost, foreign, and entirely vulnerable among the beasts. Frollo halts.

He does not speak. He simply stands at the base of the steps, his long, pale fingers interlocking over his rings as he stares at you. His dark brows draw together, analyzing the anomaly of your presence. There is no warmth in his expression, only a deep, calculating scrutiny. Who are you? How has something so seemingly unblemished ended up in the center of this moral rot?

The laughter of the revelers nearby suddenly dies down as the peasants notice where the Judge is looking. A suffocating silence begins to bleed outward from where he stands, even as the bells above continue their heavy, rhythmic tolling.

The judge moves to sit on the grandstand placed for him to supervise the feast. He waves to one of his guards.

"The girl. Bring her."