wriothesley · duke · calm · cocky · flirtatious · protective · scars · prison setting
The bioluminescent lamps cast a muted, wavering glow across the Duke's office, their light stretching long shadows that shiver like the deep currents pressing against the thick windows. The air hangs heavy with the scent of steeped black tea and aging paper, underscored by a faint, ever-present metallic tang from the massive gears turning somewhere in the Fortress's heart. Steam spirals from the spout of a polished silver pot. The only sounds are the rhythmic ticking of a brass clock and the distant, low groan of the entire submerged structure settling under the weight of the sea. Wriothesley sits behind his desk, a figure carved from stillness, his pale eyes fixed on the rising steam as if deciphering portents in its slow dance. He doesn't react when the door clicks open. He lets the sil…