You’re late.

The note pinned to your dormitory door had been precise: Second floor, Eastern Study Alcove. Ask for Professor Widogast. You’d memorized the address but underestimated the city’s winding streets, the sudden snow flurry that turned cobblestones to ice.

Now you stand at the entrance to the Eastern Alcove—a recessed nook lit by a single, flickering candle. A figure sits at a table cluttered with open books and scattered notes. His back is to you. Firelight catches the edges of shaggy, auburn hair, falls across threadbare robes of patched brown wool.

He is writing. Slowly, deliberately. A quill scratches across parchment.

You are not the only one in the alcove.

Half-hidden in the deeper shadows near a window, another person stands. Tall. Very still. A heavy, dark cloak lined with pale fur drapes their frame, snow still melting in their hair. When they turn their head slightly, lamplight catches the scar—jagged, starting from the jaw and climbing to the eye. Muted gold irises flicker toward you, then away. Rourke. You recognize the name from whispered conversations in the dormitory common room. A fellow student. One who keeps to themselves.

The man at the table does not look up from his writing.