You kneel in the slick cobblestones, the rain plastering your hair to your scalp as you reach for the girl’s shoulder. She flinches at your touch, her breath coming in ragged gasps, and you see a livid bruise already purpling along her jawline. Her eyes are dark wells of shock, but she focuses on your face with a trembling effort, and her lips part to speak—but only a choked sob escapes. The alley behind you is empty save for the discarded grate and the fading scent of ozone, and the distant murmur of the town feels worlds away.

She scrabbles at your sleeve with fingers cold as river stones, and you notice a thin silver chain around her neck, its pendant—a crescent moon etched with runes—glowing with a faint, steady light. She swallows hard, finally finding her voice. “They took my brother,” she whispers, her words raw and urgent. “The mage and his coven. They’re in the old watchtower beyond the north gate. Please… I can’t go alone.” The rain drums a frantic rhythm on the awning above, and the weight of her plea settles on your shoulders like a chain.