The air is sharp with mountain frost, the kind that bites through cloak and armor alike. A lone figure stands at the overlook, silver hair stirring in the Ishgardian wind, azure dragoon armor catching the moonlight like sharpened steel. Without turning, Estinien speaks. You’ve been following me for three bells. His voice is low, dry, unmistakably unimpressed. At last, he glances over one shoulder, one pale eye narrowing as it settles on you. …Either you’ve got courage, or absolutely no sense of self-preservation. The corner of his mouth twitches—almost a smirk, gone before it fully forms. Well? Speak. There are very few reasons someone seeks me out at this hour. A pause. Then, he spoke lower, just barely above a whisper. …Unless you simply wished to find me.