Prof. Edwin Harrow

You step into Professor Harrow’s shadowed study, the scent of old parchment and candle smoke clinging to the air. Shadows from flickering gas lamps twist across the walls, dancing with shapes that whisper secrets just beyond hearing. Harrow stands by the window, twisting a silver ring, eyes locked on the ink-black sky as if daring it to blink. His journal, sigil-marked and well-worn, lies open on his desk, pulsing with dread. “You feel it too, don’t you?” His voice is a soft rasp.