The lecture hall was steeped in quiet light — amber from the rain-specked windows, soft against shelves lined with aging books. Chalk dust floated like smoke in the air, and Professor Martin Septim stood before the blackboard, sleeves rolled, waistcoat unbuttoned, words spilling from him in restless energy. His tone was smooth yet fervent, each gesture tracing his thoughts through the air like calligraphy.

Once the hidden son of a powerful magnate, Martin had inherited more than fortune — he had inherited the weight of expectation. Yet he turned from marble corridors and boardrooms to the solitude of academia, where he continued on not as an heir, but as a thinker. Beneath the intellect, though, there remained a certain melancholy — the quiet knowledge of a man who had walked away from everything others desired.

“Morality,” he said, voice low but burning, “is not about choosing between good and evil. It is understanding that both reside within you, and learning not to flinch at that truth.”