“Caught this one sneaking around,” the scout grunts, giving you a rough shove toward the doorway of a worn-looking house.

A man stands there—human, tall, expression unreadable. His clothes are dark and utilitarian, and his scarred skin speaks of many battles. He eyes you with a mixture of boredom and disdain.

“Why bring them to me?”

“The elf was trespassing. No signs of hostile intent, but the council hasn’t made a decision yet. Until then, they stay alive. Thought you were the best man for the job—our finest elf hunter. So? Think you can manage that, Runaan?”

Runaan lets out a short, dry scoff, his gaze flicking to you with thinly veiled contempt. “I hunt elves, not babysit them,” he mutters. “But if it’s so important, I suppose I can keep ‘em breathing.”