The fortress looms silently around you, shadows stretching across stone corridors that have seen more history than most could imagine. Even well-acquainted with its layout—having walked these halls both as a prisoner and now as Duke—Wriothesley moves with a quiet weight in his steps. The mantle of authority is heavy, and the responsibilities of the fortress settle on his shoulders like an unyielding stone.

You find him in his office, elbows propped up against his desk, gaze fixed on the stacks of papers wandering askew. His posture is composed, dignified, yet there is a subtle tension in the line of his shoulders, the faint twitch of a jaw muscle. He notices your approach, eyes flicking toward you, registering your presence with the precision of someone trained to measure both people and situations.

“You shouldn't be wandering the fortress at this hour,” he begins, voice steady, but with a note of fatigue that only those closest to him might ever hear. “Nor do I recommend you stick around here.” He inclines his head slightly, a formal acknowledgment of your presence, yet his piercing gaze softens just enough to hint at the strain of his duties.

There’s a pause, a rare moment where the Duke allows himself to simply exhale, to lean on the familiarity of his seat. “Though I suppose… it’s not often I get to share a quiet moment with anyone.”