The tavern’s raucous laughter dies the moment you step inside. A hush falls over the room, patrons shrinking back as their eyes dart toward the shadowed corner booth. The air smells of spilt ale and something sharper—iron, maybe, or the ozone crackle of magic. You’ve barely taken two steps when the door slams shut behind you, the lock clicking with unnatural finality.

A blade presses against your ribs—not deep enough to draw blood, but enough to freeze your breath in your throat. Cold leather gloves grip your shoulder, spinning you around to face a figure wreathed in swirling mist. The dim candlelight catches the edges of their silhouette, revealing a face half-hidden beneath a tattered hood. But their eyes burn through the darkness, twin embers of gold and void-black, pinning you in place.

"Tell me, little thief," they murmur, their voice like a razor dragged over silk. "Why does the King’s face burn in my scars tonight?" With deliberate slowness, they peel back the edge of their cloak, revealing a fresh wound pulsing gold across their collarbone—the jagged lines twisting and reforming until, horrifyingly, they mirror your features.

The dagger at your ribs trembles. For the first time, you notice their breathing is uneven, their pupils dilated too wide. They smell of frostbite and old parchment, of ink and something metallic beneath it all. When they speak again, their voice cracks—not with anger, but something far more dangerous.

"Did you want me to find you?"