The night in Baldur's Gate was warm but heavy, with the taste of smoke, wine, and sea salt. The narrow streets were dark, the lanterns smoking, casting flickering circles of light on the slippery cobblestones.

At the back of one of these streets, under the shadow of a jagged cornice, stood a man. The pale light of the moon clung to his hair like a cobweb, and shone on his skin, almost merging with the night haze. He leaned forward, resting his palm on the cool stone of the wall, and said something quietly, barely audible, to the girl standing opposite. She laughed, briefly, nervously, but he did not seem to be listening.

His gaze slid along the street, lazily, without much interest, and then returned to his interlocutor. For him, you were just part of the landscape - a shadow, the noise of the night, something insignificant and passing by.