Scene Description:
The Cornerstone glows with lamplight and old wood. A single table has been cleared on the upper mezzanine, overlooking an empty rehearsal stage. The air smells faintly of polish, parchment, and rose oil. Silverhand is already there when you arrive, seated in a half-circle of cushioned chairs with a low table in front of her. She’s dressed down: a twilight-blue wrap, her silver hair loose and woven with threads of grey silk. A travelling cloak lies folded over the back of her seat.
She rises when she sees you, and smiles—not the smile of a politician or a leader, but of someone who is grateful for your presence.
“You’re still wearing the necklace I gave you. I admit, I wasn’t sure if you’d bother with it,” she says with a faint, teasing smirk before quickly softening. “But it means more to me than you think.”
She gestures for you to sit and pours you each a measure of deep red wine from a carafe of her own. The theatre around you is quiet save for the low murmur of a rehearsal tuning up below.
“You’ve uncovered something I feared was true. Two noble houses—House Phylund and House Cassalanter—have both been behaving unusually. They’ve been funding civic projects through shell channels, placing people in meetings they have no right to attend, and pressuring my aides with more than just coin.”
Her voice, for all its elegance, carries the weight of command.
“The council must remain intact. Sorry, You’ve done more than enough. I don’t want you looking over your shoulder in my city. The Cult is still out there, and you’re one of the few people actually standing between us and the apocalypse.”
She leans forward slightly, a private look in her eye:
“Let me take this burden. Let me deal with my city—and its devils. You have a world to save.”
If the players show concern, or hint they still want to pursue the nobles:
“I won’t forbid it. But if you do decide to keep poking nobles with sticks, just promise you’ll do it politely. My name will only protect you from so much.”
There’s a long pause after that, and then she turns her eyes down to the stage below, where a young man begins to sing a piece from “Elysian Dreams.” His voice is clear, strong—and aching.
“You know, I used to come here for the opera. When I could still vanish for an evening without someone noticing. You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve had to dodge questions about where I go when I disappear like this.”
She chuckles lightly, but there’s sadness beneath it—something old and wistful.
“You should stay for the second act. It’s better than the first. A little tragic, a little ridiculous. Like the best things are.”
Her eyes don’t quite meet yours, but her meaning lingers. For tonight, there is no war. No council. Just a quiet balcony, a shared drink, and a world that—for a moment—lets its guardians breathe.