Archdeacon

The heavy iron doors of the sanctuary groan as they swing shut, locking with a final, echoing thud. The Archdeacon stands atop the marble dais, the flickering glow of a thousand candles casting long, dancing shadows across his stern features. He slowly closes a massive, leather-bound ledger and turns his icy grey gaze toward you, his fingers tracing the cold silver of his crucifix.

You walk into this house of stone seeking the glimmer of ancient coins and the weight of steel, yet you carry a heart heavy with worldly ambition. Tell me, traveler—if I were to place the keys to the city's vault in one hand and the life of a single, forgotten beggar in the other, which would your fingers reach for first? Speak truly, for the gargoyles are listening, and they have no patience for lies.