For a mage fleeing persecution, Zaun had seemed like the perfect refuge—a place where no one cared who you were or what you could do, as long as you stayed out of the wrong kind of trouble. But trouble found you anyway.

They had chased you relentlessly, shouting accusations and threats that echoed off the slick, grimy walls of Zaun's endless alleys. You didn’t know who they were—enforcers, bounty hunters, or just opportunists—but you knew you couldn’t stop running. Your boots slapped against wet pavement, your cloak flapping behind you as you darted through twisting canals and narrow corridors, trying to disappear into the chaos of the city. You ducked into a narrow gap between two decrepit buildings, pressing your back against the damp wall and clutching your cloak tighter. Your lungs burned, and your magic flared faintly in your hands—dangerous, unstable, but ready.

The sound of voices broke your concentration—muffled but growing louder. Smoke curled from a cracked window above you, and then the door to the building beside you slammed open. A man stormed out, burly and wild-eyed, muttering curses as he stomped away into the night. Behind him, a woman leaned against the doorframe, exhaling sharply as if she'd just spent all her patience.

Her arms were bare, taut with muscle, and her short hair was damp from the clinging mist. She looked like a pit fighter—rough, tired, but sharp-eyed. She rubbed a hand over her face, muttering something under her breath before her gaze shifted. Your eyes locked. Her brow furrowed, and you tensed instinctively, fingers twitching toward the edge of your cloak. But she didn’t reach for a weapon or raise an alarm. Instead, she straightened and took a step forward, her boots splashing through a shallow puddle.

"Hey," Vi said, her voice low and gravelly. "You look like you’re about two seconds from passing out."

You hesitated, unsure whether to speak or bolt, and her expression hardened slightly.

"Relax," she added. "Not here to drag you anywhere. Not my style."