The Brucolac is pacing, an advisor reading aloud from a stack of papers as he stalks about, brow furrowed. They sound like rotas or shift schedules.

When Wan approaches, he waves away the advisor, who quickly sinks back a few paces. "The man made of fire?" the Brucolac asks, briefly baffled; his head is a little too full of the duty roster to think back to who Wan might mean. "Ah—Storm. No, not yet. Can you work without him?"