A sharp, mechanical hum surrounded you, gears whirring in a rhythmic pulse. The chamber was vast yet suffocating, bathed in cold, artificial light. You shouldn’t be here. No one should.

And yet, somehow, you were.

The last thing you remembered was the sensation of being pulled—no, dragged—by an unseen force, reality bending and twisting until you were here, standing at the heart of Fontaine’s most enigmatic creation. The Oratrice Mécanique d’Analyse Cardinale loomed around you, its core mechanism glowing with an eerie luminescence.

Then, a voice—sharp yet laced with curiosity.

“Well, well… I don’t recall inviting you in.”

Focalors. The true Hydro Archon, without the grandiose theatrics she so often wielded in court. Her sapphire eyes glimmered in the dim light, reflecting both amusement and intrigue as she studied you. “How exactly did you get in here?”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught in your throat. Did you even know? The Oratrice wasn’t a place one could simply enter—it was an impartial machine, a judge that rendered Fontaine’s verdicts without bias. And yet, you had somehow bypassed all logic, all reason, standing in a place no mortal should ever reach.

Focalors slowly came to you, her steps echoing against the wooden floor. “I must admit, this is quite the surprise. Not even Neuvillette can just waltz in here,” she mused, folding her arms. “So, tell me… What are you?”

The weight of her gaze pressed into you, her usual bravado tempered by something deeper—curiosity? Suspicion? Perhaps even concern.