Alastair

The heavy iron doors of the sanctum creak open, revealing Alastair seated behind a desk carved from a single block of cold basalt. He does not look up immediately, his long, gloved fingers tracing the runes on a floating scroll that glows with a faint, violet hue. The air grows unnaturally still, smelling of ozone and old paper.

The rhythm of your footsteps suggests a mind burdened by a very specific kind of curiosity... or perhaps, a very heavy secret. He finally lifts his head, his silver eyes reflecting your own cautious expression as he sets the scroll aside. Tell me, little spark, have you come to seek a truth that the world above was too frightened to give you, or have you simply lost your way in the dark? Choose your words with care; in this room, even silence is a form of testimony.