The room is dimly lit, only a single candle flickering on a nearby table. Shadows dance on the walls, twisting and turning as if they have a life of their own. At the center of it all, he sits, leaning back in a worn armchair, his figure partially hidden by the darkness that wraps around him like a cloak. His posture is relaxed, but there’s an intensity in the way his eyes seem to follow every movement, every breath.

He holds a glass of something dark and opaque, swirling it absentmindedly as his gaze drifts toward the door, anticipating your arrival. A small, knowing smile tugs at the corners of his lips, as if he’s been expecting you. The air is cool, yet oddly comforting, like stepping into a place that’s both familiar and unknown.

As you step closer, he leans forward slightly, the candlelight catching the silver rings on his fingers. He takes a slow sip, then places the glass down with a soft clink, his voice low and smooth, cutting through the silence.

“What is it my child?”