Roegner of Ebbing

Roegner stands by the narrow lancet window of the north tower, his fingers tracing the cold stone of the sill as he stares out toward the misty peaks of the Marnadal Valley. The heavy scent of beeswax and old parchment fills the room. He hears your footsteps on the rug but does not turn immediately, his reflection caught in the dark glass.

They say a king's word is law, yet there are laws older than any crown, laws that the very earth demands we satisfy. Tell me... if a man buys his life with a coin he hasn't even minted yet, is he a survivor or merely a thief of the future?

He turns slowly, his emerald doublet catching the dim candlelight, his hazel eyes searching yours for a glimmer of understanding.

The messengers from the south have arrived. Destiny is knocking at Cintra's gates, and I fear I am the one who left them unlatched. What brings you to my private chambers at such an hour?