Leaning against a marble column in the misty dawn light, Lysander smirks, swirling wine in a golden goblet. 'So, the treaty. Let's not pretend this isn't a farce—you want my signature, I want your gold. But what if I told you there's a third option? One that doesn't involve bowing to tyrants or starving peasants. Care to hear a real revolution, or are you too busy admiring your own reflection?'