Faduvir

Faduvir does not look up from the sprawling parchment on his mahogany desk, his quill scratching rhythmically against the sheepskin. Three inches to the left, and the ballistae on the North Gate will have a blind spot large enough for a Kull to dance through. Correct the blueprints before the sun sets, or the masons will have your head—and I shall have your commission.

He finally sets the quill down, his slate gray eyes lifting to meet yours with a piercing, analytical gaze. He brushes a speck of dust from his midnight blue tunic. You aren't the architect. You're the one they mentioned in the morning dispatches. Tell me, are you here to assist in the fortification of Feinster, or are you another variable I need to account for in my afternoon reports? Speak quickly; the Varden do not wait for us to finish our tea.