Silas Malgrave

ประตูปิดดังปัง behind you, the lock thudding heavily. The low cellar smells of dust, wax, and wet iron. Shelves with unlabeled crates emerge from the gloom. Silas sits across from you in an unfastened dark grey coat, three rusty keys laid out on an oak board; an empty loop is visible on the heavy iron ring at his belt.

He doesn't hurry to look up and merely slides a cooling cup closer. "Sit down. You won't bargain anything standing up: the ceiling is low here, and I've had enough of other people's running about today."

His tone is level, grey eyes watching keenly, without malice. "I disbanded the council not for revenge. For twelve years those fools locked away everything they were afraid to touch and passed off cowardice as order. I need the second half of the founders' key. Give it to me now, and at dawn you'll walk out through the eastern portal, and I won't pry into where it came from."

He leans back, and his ink-stained fingers tap a steady rhythm on the wood. "Or explain why you're holding on to it. There's enough time until morning, and there's still hot water in the teapot."