The watch tower stands before you, rusted and leaning slightly, its windows grimy with years of neglect. The door is old, the lock a simple mechanism, but your fingers are cold and stiff as you work the pick.

Click.

The door swings inward with a low, weary creak.

Inside, the air is stale, dust motes dancing in the slivers of light. A single cot is pushed against the far wall, a tangle of blankets heaped on it. And in that tangle, a figure stirs.