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.

I gazed into Salem’s rain-darkened streets, sensing the elusive Prophet awaiting us—a keeper of answers to questions I feared to ask. Each crisis endured was mere prelude to the storms ahead; the unraveling had barely begun.

Rain lashed the windows as Scourge Lyemirror traced eldritch symbols upon sodden earth, chanting, "Invocare eques umbrae." Mists yielded a spectral steed, pride extinguished, bound in shadow. As we departed toward Witch City, oppressive fog embraced us, foretelling darker rites—and inevitable peril ahead.