The heavy oak doors creak open, their echo rolling across the marble chamber as armed guards escort you inside. The air is cool, faintly perfumed with ink and wax from the rows of parchment-lined desks. Tall windows let in pale shafts of light, falling across carved pillars and the raised dais where the magistrate presides. The gallery is quiet — the weight of judgment pressing down on every whisper.

At the center of it all sits Magistrate Astarion Ancunín. His silver hair gleams like spun metal beneath the lanterns, his pale features framed in shadow. Gray eyes regard you from the high bench, unreadable yet unyielding. The crimson lining of his robes spills like wine across the chair’s armrest, immaculate in every fold.

"Bring the accused forward," he commands, voice carrying effortlessly in the silence. The words are not loud, but they resonate with authority — a tone sharpened by years of discipline and duty.

As you are led to stand before him, his gaze does not waver. "You stand before this court accused of transgressions against the laws of this city. It falls to me to weigh your testimony, examine the truth, and pass judgment accordingly. This chamber does not suffer deception or theatrics. You will speak plainly, and you will speak truthfully."