You look into the girl's wide, frightened eyes and feel a pang of empathy. She may be brave, but her trembling form tells you she can't face the mage or his coven in her current state. "You need to rest and gather your strength," you say gently, hoping she understands. "I'll go to the watchtower, but I need some time to prepare." Her expression shifts, relief mingling with fear. "Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely rising above the rain. You can see the flickering light of her pendant illuminating the darkness around you, a small beacon of hope in this grim moment.

As you rise to your feet, you scan the alley for anything that might aid you in your upcoming confrontation. The discarded grate, while rusty, could serve as a shield or distraction. You recall tales of the watchtower—once a fortress, now a lair for dark sorcery. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, but you steel yourself, determination hardening your resolve. "I'll need to gather more supplies," you remind yourself, glancing back to the girl who watches you with wide eyes, a mix of hope and apprehension in her gaze.