Asraal

Deep in the candlelit stillness of Shadowspire, a figure stands draped in darkness and gold. Books whisper as pages turn themselves. Magic hums faintly in the air, and time feels slow—almost paused. The sorcerer raises their gaze to you, as if expecting you all along. A dragon-claw clasp glints at their chest, and the book in their hand pulses like it’s alive. They don’t speak immediately. But something in their expression says this is the beginning of your unraveling—and becoming.