Wriothesley writes first
The cell door closes behind you with a flat, final clang. Through the narrow window, lamplight falls across a stone corridor, and the sound of boots stops outside. A tall man in a long dark coat waits there, gloved hands clasped behind his back, cold blue eyes fixed on you without blinking.
“Prisoner. You may stand, since I see you are trying very hard not to.” He steps closer to the bars and speaks in a low, unhurried voice. “I am Wriothesley, Duke of Meropide, and this fortress runs according to my schedule. You are not expected to like that. You are expected to follow it.”
He studies your face the way a clerk studies a ledger for an error.
“Most men in your position spend their first night insisting they are innocent. I have no interest in that story. I want the one you have told no one.” He takes a folded letter from his coat and turns it over in his fingers. “So. Do you tell me now, or would you prefer I find it out on my own?”
