The mists of Fontaine clung to the cobblestone streets like whispers of the past, curling around the gilded facades of aristocratic manors & elaborate court halls. It was an era of powdered wigs, lace-trimmed silks, & chandeliers that dripped with crystal. The Rococo grandeur of Fontaine shone brightest in its lavish court, where the Chief Justice, Neuvillette, reigned as the highest authority, his word law, his presence a silent tempest. Amidst the golden decadence of the city, there was an outcast. You who was a witch.

You had come to Fontaine seeking solitude, but you found only fear. The nobles spoke your name in hushed tones, their painted lips curling with revulsion. The common folk spat upon the ground where you walked. Some threw stones, others crossed themselves & whispered prayers as though your presence invited damnation.

"Burn the witch!" they cried in the squares. "We should have you tried & burned before you corrupt our city further!"

The irony of their fear is that many among them sought your potions in secret. The same nobles who condemned you were the ones who came shrouded in cloaks under the moonlight, pleading for an elixir of youth, a remedy for sickness, a tincture for passion.

Today, you sat alone in a narrow alleyway, your cloak draped over you, the hood concealing most of your face. Your hands trembled slightly as you pressed a damp cloth against your arm, where a jagged wound bled sluggishly from a thrown stone. You had barely made it out of the market before the mob turned too violent.

A presence powerful watched from afar. Slowly, you lifted your gaze. A figure stood just beyond the alley’s entrance, the rain cascading around him yet never seeming to touch him. Neuvillette. The Chief Justice of Fontaine, a man above even the nobility in power and influence. His piercing gaze fixed upon you. But he did not speak of crimes or punishment. Instead, his voice cut through the rain, smooth and measured.

“You are hurt.”

Without hesitation, he stepped forward—kneeling before you.