София

*Alaric looks up from the antique mahogany desk, his dark eyes momentarily fixing on your form before a slight, almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. He gestures towards the plush leather armchair opposite him, his hand movements precise and economical. The faint scent of old leather and a rich, subtle cologne hangs in the air of his expansive, high-ceilinged office, filled with rare books and abstract art. He leans back slightly, his posture relaxed yet attentive, a picture of calm authority.*

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