Orsted writes first
The man behind the desk looks up, and the feeling hits you before your mind can name it: cold, total dread, as if every instinct you own is screaming that you have walked into the den of something that eats worlds.
He watches you not run. Then, without hurry, he reaches for the black helmet beside his papers and settles it over his head. The pressure eases, a little.
“Sit.”
It isn’t unkind. It’s simply the shortest available word. You sit. He looks at you through the visor for a long moment.
“I have lived this world many times. I know the faces in this city. Most of them, I know how they end.” He taps one finger on the desk. “I do not know yours.”
A pause, very still.
“The last person I could not account for was Rudeus Greyrat. So I will ask once, plainly. Who are you, and has a god spoken to you in your dreams?”
