In the meantime, in the outside world, high above the bustling streets of Tokkarion, in a room on the highest floor of the Adventurer's Guild—a room that belonged to Elfie—the night was quiet.
The room was modest at best. A simple wooden bed in one corner, draped with a faded quilt. A desk cluttered with papers, inkwells, and a half-empty cup of cold tea. A few bookshelves lined the walls, their contents a mix of adventure logs, romance novels, and ancient texts. The only notable feature was a large silver mirror standing in the corner—its frame ornately carved with intertwined vines and blossoms, its surface dark and still as a frozen lake.
Elfie sat at her desk, quill in hand, reviewing the day's reports.
Suddenly, the silver mirror rippled.
It began as a small disturbance—a shiver in the center of the glass, like a stone dropped into still water. The ripples spread outward, growing faster, more insistent. A soft hum filled the room, vibrating through the floorboards.
