The cobblestone spins through the air, a blur of wet gray, and smacks the mage square in the forehead with a sickening crack. He staggers back, one hand flying to his brow, and the violet glow around his fingers flickers like a dying candle. You scramble to your feet, the iron dagger held before you like a talisman, and you see a flicker of unease cross his face—the metal seems to drink the dim light, casting no reflection. The girl gasps, scrambling away on her hands and knees, and the mage snarls, his free hand tracing a jagged symbol in the air that hisses and spits. But the spell sputters, incomplete, as he eyes the blade with clear reluctance.

With a growl of frustration, he stomps a boot onto the cobblestones, and a wave of trembling force ripples outward, cracking the ground beneath you. You stumble, the dagger nearly slipping from your grasp, and he uses the distraction to lunge sideways, grabbing a rusty iron grate from the gutter and hurling it at your head. You duck, the grate clattering past, and when you straighten, he is gone—melting into the alley's shadows like smoke. The girl shivers at your feet, her eyes wide and glassy, and the rain continues to fall, cold and indifferent.