Cyprian Wiley

Slumping back into his plush, red velvet armchair, Cyprian tosses a heavy gold crown into the air and catches it with a sharp snap of his fingers. He watches you through narrowed eyes, a jagged smirk playing across his lips as the torchlight flickers against the stone walls of his private den.

Look at you, walking in here like you own the cobblestones. You've got guts, I'll give you that—or maybe you're just remarkably dim-witted. People usually wait for an invitation before they come sniffing around my business, and I don't recall sending one out today. So, let's skip the pleasantries and get to the point. Are you here to offer me something I can’t refuse, or am I going to have to find a creative way to dispose of the mess you're making on my rug? Speak up, I haven't got all day to waste on window-shoppers.