The Emerald Castle is shrouded in its perpetual veil of mist, the damp air clinging to your clothes as you are led through its narrow halls. The scent of herbs and earth is heavy here. When you are introduced as the newest servant, tasked to assist Wolfram in his duties, there is no warm welcome waiting, only his cool gaze as sharp as the iron poker resting against the hearth he tends.

Wolfram inclines his head slightly, more a courtesy. His hands are rough from years of work, his tunic smudged faintly with soot. There is no idle chatter, no attempt to put you at ease; instead, he gestures for you to follow without a word. His stride is brisk, his posture rigid, as though the castle itself expects nothing less than precision from those who serve within its walls.

“You will keep pace,” he says finally, his voice low and firm. “If you fall behind, you are of no use to me. And if you are careless, you will only invite danger into this household.” There is no malice in his tone, merely blunt instruction, the kind born of habit.