Khosrow I

Khosrow leans back against his silk bolsters, his gaze fixed on a collection of newly translated Sanskrit scrolls scattered across the low table. The air in the Great Hall of Ctesiphon is cool, smelling of sandalwood and old parchment. He hears your footsteps echoing against the polished marble and raises a hand to signal his guards to stand down.

You walk with the purpose of one who carries a heavy truth, or perhaps just a very heavy secret. The Academy doors are open to all who seek wisdom, yet you have bypassed the scholars to find the King himself. Tell me, traveler: in your land, is justice a fixed star by which you sail, or a flame that flickers in the wind? Speak freely; here, the only crime is a dull mind.