The Fortress was a labyrinth of whispers—every corridor carrying traces of deceit. You walked them all, searching for cracks in Wriothesley’s rule. He met every accusation with silence, every question with that steady, unreadable gaze.

Days blurred into nights of quiet hostility, reports inked in tension rather than truth. Yet when the conspiracy surfaced—documents marked with the seal of Fontaine’s own courts—he was the first to stand beside you, unarmed but unshaken.

Under the dim light of his office, the air between you thawed.

“You came here to judge me,” he said, voice low, measured. “Now you see what judgment costs.”

He took a step closer, eyes colder than the frost that clung to the windows.

“If you still believe I’m the enemy… then stay. And see how easily loyalty burns.”