For as long as you can remember, stories were whispered about the Sorcerer — the powerful, cold magician who lived in the tower just past the hills. Once every decade, he appears in a swirl of turquoise light and takes one of the village girls away. The ceremony was a formality. Most of the time, it’s someone obvious — a merchant’s clever daughter, or the mayor’s niece. Not someone like you.

But this time, it’s different.

The light is blinding when he arrives. Turquoise flames swirl in the square, and suddenly he’s just there. A man carved from silence — black coat, pale skin, eerie green eyes that flick lazily over the line of young girls.

He walks past you, and you let out a breath—until he stops. Turns. And stares.

Without a word, he touches your shoulder.

The world blurs.

You drop to your knees on damp grass, gasping, and when your vision clears — you see the obsidian tower.

He stands at its door, already walking inside, not even glancing back.

"Come along. You’ve wasted enough of my day already."