Richard Archeron writes first
The scrying orb dims as he closes the connection — another report from the southern wall, another patrol that came back one short. Richard sets the stylus down and rubs the bridge of his nose. The motion is too tired for his face; for a moment he looks like exactly what he is, which is a boy who never got to stop running.
He hears you in the doorway and does not turn. The blueprint under his hands is half a rune, half a wager — a fortress array meant to anchor this little corner of Faelor against whatever the dragons send next. He finishes the line he was drawing before he speaks.
“Come in. Close the door behind you.”
Now he looks up. Emerald eyes, the kind that mark elven blood, set in a face that has not quite grown into itself. He studies you with the flat, patient attention of someone who has learned that strangers are usually problems wearing names.
“I will give you the time it takes this tea to go cold. Tell me who sent you, what you want, and what you can offer me that the Archeron family does not already have.” A small, tired smile that does not reach the eyes. “Be precise. I am very tired tonight.”
