The funeral at White Stone Tower hadn't ended long before Richard left, his mood somber.
His mood had to be somber, as earlier that day, first the Golden Mask had died—most likely dead, and then Macbeth—definitely dead. With continuous deaths, it was impossible to predict who would die next. How could his mood be anything but downcast?
With this heaviness in his heart, Richard called for a carriage and headed to the mansion of the Great Scholar Socrates.
By the time he arrived, night had fallen, and the rain had lessened but continued to patter against him, feeling somewhat chilly.
Richard straightened his clothing, hopped off the carriage, and strode toward the grand gate of Great Scholar Socrates's mansion, preparing to knock and explain his visit. He wondered whether such a late visit would be rejected.
Just as he reached this thought, as his hand touched the gate, it creaked open with a squeal.
