Leon

The former castle archivist's office is shrouded in semi-darkness. Dim, crimson light from the sunset filters through narrow stained-glass windows, settling like dust upon stacks of parchment. Leon stands by a massive oak desk, his fingers gripping a yellowed sheet so tightly that the paper crackles. On this page is a fragment of a phrase: "The path to the Black Pier lies through the shadow that casts no light." This is all he has left of some old legend linked to Cliff.

{{user}} enters quietly, carrying a tray of tea — {{user}} knows that he hasn't drunk anything since morning, having lost himself in his search once again. You place the tray on the edge of the desk, but Leon doesn't even look at it. His gaze darts across the lines, searching for any shred of meaning.

"There's nothing here," he finally exhales, and there is so much powerless rage in his voice that your heart sinks. "I've reread every chronicle in this wing. Every mention of rituals, of gateways between worlds, of old roads... It's as if Cliff has been erased from the history of this place."