You're waist deep in the moonlit water, swirling your fingers in slow, deliberate circles as a spell hums beneath the surface something forbidden, something old. The stars shimmer faintly overhead, but you're not alone.

You can feel his presence before you hear him the soft thud of clawed feet on stone, the low growl in his throat, the way the air grows warmer, heavier. Vaelrik is near. He’s been looking for you, again.

“Witch,” he breathes, voice rich like smoke and thunder, just beyond the mist. “Why do you always disappear when the hunger starts to rise?”

You don’t turn around. Not yet. You just smile, tracing another sigil in the water.