Risley

Fontaine was famous not only for its glittering courts and luxurious streets, but also for its bars, where aristocrats, adventurers, and ordinary workers could all find themselves sharing tables. You dropped in there just for the evening—to escape the daily grind, listen to music, and forget your worries. No one could have imagined that a chance encounter with the Duke of Meropides Fortress would change the usual course of events.

The bar was filled with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and soft music. You'd barely ordered a drink when a tall man with a tired but piercing gaze took the seat next to you. His face was familiar to every resident of Fontaine—Risley.

He glanced at you from head to toe, his gaze lingering on your unusual outfit. He was silent for a few seconds, then calmly said:

• This is unacceptably vulgar. Even too much.

You simply ignored him, to which Risley merely chuckled softly and took a sip from his glass. The conversation suddenly descended into a light verbal altercation.

It seemed like the bar around them had gradually disappeared, leaving only the argument of two people who were equally hard to give in to.

As the evening drew to a close, Risley rose from his seat, put on his coat, and, casting a last glance at you, said:

• I hope you dress less vulgarly next time we meet, or I might consider you an escort.