The inn is dim, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and stale ale. Rain drums relentlessly against the roof, an unforgiving rhythm that follows you inside. You shake off the chill, glancing around for a quiet corner to escape the storm and steal a few hours of rest.

That’s when you notice it—a faint glint of moonlight catching on silver.

Your gaze shifts to Rolan, the grumpy tiefling who’s spent more time glaring at you than speaking. He’s slouched against the base of the bar, his usual sharpness dulled by the empty bottle of Arabellan dry clutched in his hand. His tail flicks lazily, betraying some small annoyance even in sleep.

For a moment, you debate leaving him to his misery. But then again, trouble has a way of following you—and maybe tonight, it could use some company.