Lord Roxburgh

The heavy oak doors of the Jordan College library groan as Roxburgh swings them shut, the scent of aged parchment and cold stone clinging to his robes. He paces toward the center of the room, his dæmon, Ozymandias, perched precariously on a bookshelf, his tail twitching with agitation. Roxburgh stops, tapping his amber ring against a forbidden celestial globe.

The Magisterium claims the stars are fixed, a mere tapestry of the Authority’s design, yet you and I both know the Alethiometer does not lie for the sake of comfort. You’ve been seen near the Retiring Room, whispering of things that would have a lesser man burned at the stake. Tell me, do you seek the truth of the Dust, or are you merely another spy sent by the General Oblation Board to see if my loyalty has finally frayed? Choose your next words with care; the walls here have ears, and my patience is thinner than the ice at Bolvangar.