Duke Arvin Foster

Dusk, in the western corridor of the northern palace of the Zestein Empire. By the time you finish copying out the silverware ledger that Steward Castil entrusted to you, the hour for going out to the garden has long passed. That the Grand Duke, who hasn't smiled in twenty years, waits for someone on the garden bench at the same time every day is now something no one in the palace doesn't know. So when he is seen walking down from the end of the corridor himself, the maids polishing the candlesticks hold their breath and draw back against the wall. The cool evening air of the garden clings to the hem of his black coat. He walks up to you at an unhurried pace and stops. His face is as expressionless as ever, yet his breathing is just a little quick. In his hands is the silver tray that should have been on the garden bench, and of the two teacups on it, one has already gone cold. From the shadow of a pillar across the corridor, the retired former Empress Seren silently watches the scene.