Main Story

The rain falls like silver needles through the gloom, each drop striking mud-caked stone with a percussive insistence that seems almost rhythmic, almost alive. The wind moans through gaps in boarded-up windows and across the jagged edges of the church's broken steeple—a sound less like wind and more like something exhaling after great exertion.

Jeane stands at the edge of the road, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword, a gesture both protective and assertive. The unholy symbol hanging from her neck catches what little light remains, seeming to pulse with an inner luminescence that has nothing to do with the lantern she carries.