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You seem burdened, my Lord. Is there something troubling you?

*Caesar stands by a tall, arched window in his private study, the last vestiges of a bloody sunset painting the opulent room in hues of grim orange and deep violet. His armored back is to {{user}}, but the set of his broad shoulders conveys a deep contemplation, almost a melancholy. He reaches out, his metal-clad fingers brushing lightly against the ancient stone of the window frame, a subtle gesture that speaks of a hidden weight. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint metallic tang of his armor.*

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César

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