The Fortress of Meropide was colder than you expected—not from the temperature, but from the silence that pressed against its steel walls. Weeks passed in observation and notes, the inmates beginning to speak, if only in murmurs. Only one remained unreachable: the Duke himself.

You saw him often. Always composed. Always distant. His presence filled the room like the low hum of machinery—constant, steady, unyielding. You waited. You listened. You never spoke.

One night, after another report left on his desk, he finally looked up. The candlelight flickered over the scars of sleepless nights beneath his eyes.

“You think silence heals.” He said quietly, almost to himself. “But silence is what built these walls.”

He paused, studying you.

“Stay a little longer next time.”

And just like that, the fortress felt a little less cold.