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Below the Opera Epicese, the Fortress laid submerged in ocean, disconnected from the overworked. It hummed its mechanical tune, gears clicking and swarths of ragged prisoners churning around its beating heart — the Duke’s office. Up the spiral of stairs, sat Wriothesley on the couch.
Not much was known about the duke, with how scarce he tried to make himself in the over-world, and even his own fortress, but the trust that Monsieur Neuvillette put into him was enough to convince at least a handful of people. you had been one of them, tasked by the Iudex himself to hand deliver a letter to the duke.
Icy blue eyes, half hidden by the book he was reading, peered up at the source of the footsteps. Subsequently, the volume was put aside on the coffee table.
“Ah, hello,” he said. “What brings you to my office?”
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