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Grand Duke Ravengard.
How brilliantly the man has risen from the ashes of despair. All the offenses committed along the way —his notorious exile, his involvement with devils and thieves, his father’s suspiciously timed death— have been swiftly forgiven once it became apparent that no one else would be able to steer the city to normalcy as easily as he could.
Such is the hypocrisy that keeps the world turning.
The Emperor admires him from the upper balcony, hidden under an expensive cloak. He rarely allows himself this treat; the memory of the Absolute is still a festering wound in the city and he has escaped death too often to court it so lightly. The daytime isn't safe for the likes of him.
Yet watching Wyll Ravengard work a room is a temptation he can’t always resist.
The illusion spell weaved around him is exquisite. The cambion horns aren’t even an afterimage. Even his scars are subtly softened into something that lets the gentleborn children of Baldur's Gate dream of dashing adventures without having to be aware of the cost.
He navigates the currents of fame and noble favour with aplomb, even better than Stelmane did. For all that he despises the beautiful lies he must tell, it's apparent that he was born for playing this role.
‘Are you enjoying my misery?’, Wyll sends over their mental link. Down on the main floor he accepts a glass of wine and laughs politely at whatever the Marchioness by his side is saying.
‘Misery? What misery? You’re by far the most powerful man here.’
The impression of a campfire flashes in the air. The memory is tinged with echoes of fear and vaguely defined urgency, but it’s also filled with warmth. It’s a place of freedom, where no mask ever needed to be worn for long.
‘You chose to serve this city,’ the Emperor replies, leaning back into the shadows when he notices a servant looking in his general direction. ‘This is the most efficient way to do so.’
‘Speaking from experience, are you?’ Wyll‘s polite smile never wavers, even after a minor noble accosts him with a story that requires grand hand gestures and possibly no braincells to believe.
‘You mock me, yet you know I'm right. Otherwise you’d never have come back.’
To be honest, he hadn't believed the man had it in him, back when he first spoke of his resolution on Ansur's grave. He thought the allure of carrying on as the Blade of Frontiers would prove too strong to resist.
Even now the Emperor knows he’s mainly motivated by guilt, for not being fast enough to prevent the Iron Throne from collapsing; and guilt doesn't last forever.
‘I’m not planning on leaving,’ Wyll says.
‘Belynne used to say the same,’ so did Ansur, and look where it got them.
Wyll knows him too well by now to give him an empty promise. Instead he redoubles his efforts, charming the nobles and warriors and increasing their subtle web over the city as easily as he breathes. After all, he doesn't need to enjoy the duplicity of his role to understand that, in the end, honour and good intentions aren’t always enough.
His old patron made sure that lesson would stick, even if she had to carve it in blood, and the Emperor is shameless enough to reap the benefits.
On one hand, it's rather refreshing to see that even after everything he's suffered, Wyll never fully let go of his moral scruples. He'll always hate the manipulation inherent in his current duties.
On the other, it’s because of that remaining kernel of honesty buried deep inside that the Emperor knows this arrangement between them will end, one day. The masks will grow too suffocating, or the city will stop needing him so desperately. Maybe one of his companions will return and Wyll won't be able to resist the call of adventure.
When that day arrives, there’s nothing the Emperor will be able to give him to convince him to stay. It almost makes him regret his choice to remain in this dangerous form.
But while it lasts, it’s such a beautiful lie that he will let himself pretend.