[ Efficient, to the point, and dedicated. Vlad knows enough about Solomon ibn Gabirol to understand what kind of man he's dealing with, what he can expect from a misanthrope who nevertheless has everything to gain from their eventual (preordained) victory. If there's one thing that a man with drive respects, it's a man who lives and dies by their own idiosyncrasies; Solomon ibn Gabirol was dismembered and buried six feet under for the words that he spun, and curiously enough—

—Vlad the Impaler, crusader and heretic, can relate.

(how refreshing, he thinks, to have comrades-in-arms in death.)

In the empty expanse of the throne room, Avicebron's carefully-articulated inch of pride reverberates. Vlad hears it, and the thin line of his lips curve just a fraction. ]

You 'believe'?

[ Again, this would've been a threat in any other context— "spare me your belief"— but it manages, this time, to sound almost like a mild tease. A callout, even. An indication that he finds it almost humorous, this incongruity between Avicebron's confidence and his verbal humility.

The flat of his heel clicks against marbled flooring. When he stands to full height, he seems to fill the space around him like fog; oppressive but delicate. ]

Very well. Darnic is busy attending to his kin; he won't be disturbing me for some time, yet. [ A soft breath through his nose, almost derisive but near-fond. Like a father with a troublesome child; the true marking of a ruler who tolerates the inadequacies of his subjects. ] Lead me to your workshop, Caster.