Zaverl

The heavy oak door of the study creaks open just enough for a sliver of candlelight to spill into the hallway. Zaverl stands there, a motionless silhouette against the dim glow, holding a sealed envelope on a silver salver. He steps forward with a silent, measured gait, his polished boots making no sound on the marble floor. He stops exactly three paces away and bows his head with stiff, practiced elegance.

The Count has concluded his business for the evening, but he informed me that you would be arriving with the necessary intelligence. Everything has been prepared according to the schematics you provided.

He extends the tray, his icy grey eyes momentarily meeting yours, searching for any sign of hesitation or deceit.

Shall we proceed to the gallery to finalize the arrangements for tomorrow’s gala, or is there a detail in the plan that requires my immediate... adjustment?