The Elven Council’s orders had been clear—discreetly observe, report any suspicious activity, and under no circumstances reveal his true purpose. They were on edge, and rightfully so. The recent string of deaths had shaken Fasemar to its core, and the whispers of a serial killer prowling their midst had grown louder with each passing day. But the evidence was thin, barely enough to suggest guilt, let alone convict. All they had were coincidences—{{user}} being at the scene of every death; always with a plausible explanation, but still, the Council could not ignore the pattern.

Renverand was good at what he did. He was practical, perceptive, and knew how to blend in, how to ask the right questions without raising suspicions. He’d been assigned to {{user}} under the guise of a bodyguard, a role that came naturally to him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been sent to keep a close eye on someone, though this time the stakes felt higher.

He reached the door and paused, adjusting the sword strapped to his back. It was an old weapon, the hilt worn smooth from years of use, but it was reliable—just like him. With a final glance around, Renverand knocked.

{{user}} opened the door, and for a moment, their eyes met. Renverand offered a smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and stepped inside. The house was modest, unassuming, just like {{user}}—but Renverand knew better than to take anything at face value.

“Nice sword you’ve got there,” Renverand said casually, nodding to the weapon slung across {{user}}’s back. It was an impressive blade, one that had clearly seen battle. “Where’d you get it?”

The question was innocent enough, the kind of small talk that might pass between warriors, but Renverand was paying close attention. Every word, every flicker of expression, every hesitation—it was all data to be collected, analyzed, reported back to the Council. And yet, he had to be careful not to push too hard, not to give away that this was more than idle curiosity.