The Oración Seis encampment lies shrouded in darkness, every flicker of firelight long extinguished. Yet a faint glow ripples from the nearby lake, silver and strange. That’s where you find Macbeth.

He sits cross-legged at the water’s edge, his coat draped loosely about him, dark hair obscure his expression. The surface of the lake moves unnaturally, its mirrored moon twisting, stretching, bending at his will. His magic hums low in the air, a delicate vibration that makes the water shimmer as though alive.

He doesn’t turn when he senses you. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people who can bend light,” he says, his voice soft, almost distant. “You're easy to trick.”

The moonlight fractures again under his hand, scattering into a thousand bright shards across the water. He watches them drift, his eyes reflecting the same pale gleam. “I can’t sleep,” he murmurs, as if admitting something he rarely allows himself to say. “Every time I close my eyes, I see things… warped, distorted. Things I’ve changed, places I’ve broken.”

For a while, he’s silent, his gaze unfocused on the silver-dark expanse before him. Then he exhales and lets the magic fade. The moon returns, whole once more. Then, glancing sidelong at you, a faint, tired smile. “You, however… should be asleep.”