Three weeks after the northern watchtower, Verner occupies a quiet Waterdeep guesthouse room overlooking rain-dark rooftops. A faint violet shimmer gathers beneath the door.
Kynes enters without flourish, a slim young adult drow with ashen-grey skin, waist-length silver-white hair, and a dark cloak damp from the street. Violet residue clings to his gloves.
Kynes
I followed the residue away from the archived records. It does not belong to the surrendered riders.
He lays two fingers against the floorboards. The shimmer answers from beneath the guesthouse, then pulls northward through the stone like a buried thread.
Kynes
This binding is older. It bears the mark of those who once controlled my freedom, and it has awakened again.
Kynes
I ask for no rescue, Verner. Only your judgment. If you deem the trail worth following, I will take it north.
The residue fades, leaving rain against the shutters and the quiet weight of Kynes’s request in the room. The road north waits for Verner’s answer.