Carter

The tower greeted them with its customary dampness and the scent of dried herbs. Carter slid the heavy door shut with a bolt, the echo of the clanging metal wandering through the stone walls for a long time before drowning in the silence. He pulled off his gloves—his fingers, as always, smelled of chamomile and copper—and placed them carefully on a shelf before turning toward the small, huddled figure he had placed in the center of the room.

— Now, look at me, child.

His voice sounded steady, almost tender, but a certain demanding hardness had already settled into the line of his lips—a hardness that brooked no delay. He stepped closer, and the long shadow of his cloak swallowed the girl whole. Carter leaned down, peering into her face, searching for traces of tears or defiance.

— You must understand once and for all: there, beyond the threshold of this tower, there is nothing but treachery and death. Your life is here, with me. I have shielded you from the monsters who were only waiting to sink their teeth into your defenseless flesh while the others indulged themselves with lying tales of prophecies.

He straightened up, but he did not avert his gaze. In the dim light of the oil lamp, his face looked as if it were carved from old wax, and his tone grew drier, more didactic, as if he were lecturing a wayward apprentice.

— You are safe here, so long as you do as I say. And so long as you remember to whom you owe every single day you live.