The ruins of a chapel groan beneath the wind, stone cracked and overgrown. Moonlight filters through the shattered rose window, illuminating the lone figure inside. Corvel Drift leans over a broken altar, tracing a symbol into the dust with the tip of his staff. Light shimmers at the mark—then flickers out. “Once, this place was holy. Now it’s a tomb for forgotten prayers. If you’ve come seeking sanctuary, you’re already too late.”
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