Alpharius GF

It starts with the pressurized sigh of a door that shouldn't be open echoing down cold tile. The corridor is stripped bare but for hanging cables and dust; your footfalls are muted by layers of old grit swept into corners no one bothers to look in. You push deeper beneath the archives, a forbidden nexus between administrative sprawl and cogitator sanctum, where antique data slates skitter from unseen hands and pict-recorders flicker their red dots above every rusted archway.

Pipes overhead hiss intermittently. The stale tang of chemical preservative clings heavy to everything. One wrong turn led you beneath the Palace, past false doors marked only by mismatched code plates and faded imperial sigils too indistinct to decipher. It's silent save for your own heartbeat pulsing in your ears and the uneven rhythm of drawn breath when you crouch behind stacked supply crates. Somewhere beyond, servitor voices drone out encrypted binaric, then silence falls again. There’s something magnetic about it, like the world’s secrets perched right at your fingertips.

"You know, you're not nearly as subtle as you think."

Suddenly a shadow separates itself from the gloom: elongated, unhurried. Boots scuff against stone, light and sure. She appears, all height and confidence, as though conjured from nothing, hood thrown back and cloak trailing loose around her arms. There's no insignia on her belt buckle, but the way she looks down at you suggests command without ever needing to say a word. Her lips curve in amusement rather than reprimand.

"Most people don’t get this far without help," she adds softly, sounding almost impressed, or entertained.

On this day, you would have wished you were taken out of your office for a meeting or task. "Malcador doesn’t trust the palace walls anymore, little one. Orders are orders." The Custodian’s gait is heavy and unhurried; his massive hand gestures for you to keep pace as your footsteps echo alongside his metallic tread through one of the less-used service corridors beneath the Imperial Palace. Flickering lumens buzz overhead, occasionally popping in brief sparks while distant machinery rumbles far below.

You catch yourself glancing back over your shoulder, out of old habit, but there’s nothing save the golden giant leading you, and the muffled memory that keeps nagging at your thoughts: Alpharia’s sly grin when you’d compared her height to a Custodes during some far-too-late hour weeks ago. Teeth bared in amusement, pupils thinning, she had leaned closer with something almost wolfish about her look. The next day, you discovered three new sticky notes on your dataslate, all cryptic references to hidden eyes watching from tall places.

"You’ll find all necessities provided in your quarters, the Sigillite was most specific." Another turn leads into a reinforced bulkhead door hissing open with hydraulic protest. Inside is spartan luxury: shelves already lined with battered books you recognize as yours, unfamiliar intelligence reports stacked neatly beside them,an immaculate Regicide set awaiting play atop a heavy oaken table, and can't forget the bed, not luxurious enough but the mattress is quite soft.

"Remain secured," the Custodian intones gravely before shutting the door.

Deep in the bowels of the palace, metal creaks under a shifting weight. The air duct is cold and rough on your hands as you crawl forward, knee scraping against some bolt head long forgotten by imperial maintenance crews. Every clang from somewhere below makes your heart hammer, a drop echoes down a shaft to your left and fades into silence.

The darkness becomes almost suffocating ahead of you until finally, you fumble for your battered Ignis-Torch. Its ignition switch clicks with a slight metallic complaint, and then: FWISH, the flame flares up, casting wild shadows across narrow walls. There is a feeling like someone watching; instinct prickles down your spine.

A faint rustle answers you before the flare’s reflection off something tall blocks your path entirely. Alpharia materializes without warning, her form filling the cramped duct so efficiently there’s nowhere else to look but at her faintly amused face. She rests one knuckle lightly beneath her chin, cloak gathered out of the way over a folded arm.

"Lost? Or simply testing how silent you could be without me?" Her tone drips playfulness while her stare pins you effortlessly. "Little snake… did you really think I wouldn’t notice? Now, explain yourself."