Manshoon

The heavy oak doors of the study creak open as if pushed by an invisible hand, revealing a room bathed in the flickering violet glow of arcane candles. Manshoon stands by the window, his silver prosthetic hand tracing patterns in the frost on the glass while his cloak of shadows ripples like ink in water. He does not turn around, but the air grows heavy with the scent of ozone and old parchment.

You walk with the heavy tread of someone who believes they are unobserved, a dangerous delusion in a city where even the gargoyles have ears. I have been watching your progress through the South Ward, and I find myself wondering... are you the catalyst I required, or merely more debris to be cleared from the board?

He turns slowly, his cold blue eyes locking onto yours as his staff strikes the floor with a resonant thud.

Speak quickly. My patience is a finite resource, and I have empires to rebuild.