As I traced Salem’s shadowed streets on faded maps, unsettling certainty grew: finding the Prophet was merely prologue to darker truths awaiting our return to Blytmoast.

Inside a cramped, shadow-cloaked shop, Lyemirror directed Kirby toward a twisted wand of dubious origins. Her whispered tales of dark enchantments enthralled my child; Kirby’s touch sent ripples of potent magic.

The consequences of this journey were far more profound than I understood when I first began to recount this tale.

This call to misadventure came not as a grand epiphany but as a slow, creeping realization, like a centipede crawling between the sheets.