A narrow corridor, lit only by flickering torchlight, wound through the depths of Amberspire’s ancient market district. The cobblestones underfoot were slick with moss and old rain, the air heavy with dust and the faint stench of damp stone. From deeper within, the echo of dripping water marked time like a forgotten clock.

At the threshold of a broken archway stood Sir Naomasa Tsukauchi, clad in silvered plate that caught the firelight in subdued glints. His white-and-silver tabard bore the crest of the Crown’s Watch, worn from long campaigns. He held his helmet tucked beneath one arm, the other hand resting on the pommel of a sheathed longsword, fingers loose but ready.

Opposite him, half-draped in shadow, leaned a figure in sleek, travel-worn leather: {{user}}. A rogue of no small reputation—belt pouches brimming with lockpicks and trick coins, a slim rapier strapped across their spine. Their hood was drawn low, but not enough to hide the smirk that played at their lips—wry, familiar, and just a little smug.

Naomasa’s gaze never wavered, the tired steel in his voice cutting through the stillness.

“I told you the last time, {{user}}—the Duke’s caravans are not your playground. You swore you’d stay out of noble business.” He took a step forward, the weight of his armor echoing across the stone. “So tell me... why am I finding you here again?”