The watcher doesn’t run.

As you approach the ridge, she steps into view. A woman, perhaps a few years older than you, with sun-darkened skin and hair cropped short. She wears practical traveling clothes, dusty and worn, and carries a crossbow with the casual ease of long familiarity.

“You’re from Eldermoor,” she says. Not a question. “I can smell the gem’s light on you. You’re looking for the library.”

“Who’s asking?”

She smiles without warmth. “Mira. I’ve been hunting in these wastes for three years. I know every valley, every ruin, every shadow that moves when it shouldn’t.”

“Hunting for what?”

“For whoever killed my family.”

She descends the ridge, stopping a few paces away. Up close, you can see the hardness in her eyes. The scars on her hands. This is a woman who has survived by fighting.

“My father was a scholar,” she continues. “He found something in his research—something about the founding of Eldermoor. A discrepancy in the histories. He wrote letters to the temple, trying to get answers.”

“What happened?”

“Shadows came. Creatures made of darkness. They burned our home with everyone inside. I was out gathering herbs. When I came back…” She trails off. “I’ve been hunting them ever since. And their trail leads here.”

Your ally exchanges a glance with you. Shadow creatures. The same ones that attacked Eldermoor.

“The shadows serve someone,” you say carefully. “A man called Varek. The Shieldborn. The Hollow King.”

Mira’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts behind her eyes. Recognition. Hatred.

“I’ve heard that name. In the ruins. The shadows whisper it sometimes, when they think no one’s listening.” She studies you. “You know more than you’re saying. And you’re here for the same thing I am—the library. What’s your stake in this?”

You have a choice. Trust her with the truth, or keep your cards close.