The cobblestone streets of Thornwood are slick with a cold drizzle that has fallen since dawn. You huddle beneath the awning of a baker’s shop, shivering in your threadbare tunic, a half-eaten apple clenched in your fist. The townsfolk hurry past with hoods drawn, faces pinched and suspicious, and you catch whispers of strange lights flickering beyond the northern gate last night. A heavy wooden sign creaks above a tavern called The Slumbering Wyrm, its painted serpent grinning with chipped yellow teeth. You have only a few copper coins jingling in your pocket, and the gnawing hunger in your belly is a familiar companion.

A sudden crash rings out from the alley beside the tavern. A woman’s sharp cry cuts through the rain, followed by the clatter of metal on stone. Two figures emerge from the shadows—a tall man in a frayed cloak dragging a struggling girl by the arm. She twists and kicks, but he holds her fast, muttering words that make the air feel thick and cold. A faint purple glow coils around his fingers, and the girl’s struggles weaken as if the life is draining from her limbs.