You creep into the darkness, scanning the shadows, letting your eyes adjust. As you move down the hallway, peering into rooms, the chill from outside seeps in. His voice echoes faintly as you advance.

"She is not my lover, never was. He is her lover, the corrupted bishop in this game you play with her."

You freeze in place. Somewhere in the house, you feel warmth. It isn't far—like a fire burns nearby.

"If she is not your lover, then what is the truth of your story?" you call into the darkness, moving toward the source of the warmth. The air grows silent.

You keep walking until you reach a larger room at the end of the hall. Inside, a small fire smolders in a broken fireplace, with stones scattered around it. Only embers remain. Sitting in a chair, facing the dwindling flames, is The Drunk—Pagma.

"My story matters not," he says softly. "The truth is simple—I was killed in a pub fight, only to awaken in a strange land, eager to find my friend, or so I thought he was. He locked me and my brother away in another land, another time. He kept us safe, let us rule after our father died. But, like the rest of these planes, it's all an illusion—a creation of his mind. Nothing is real, child. Haven't you realized that? We're all puppets in his grand plan."

His words trail off, and you're left to ponder their meaning. Could it be true? Could you all be creations of a broken man’s mind? A man who failed to let go, who caused the Shattering, forcing The Poet and others to lock away these realms?

After a moment, you step closer to the embers, noticing some wood beside the fireplace. You place a log on the coals, watching as the flames rekindle, dancing over the dry, aged wood.

You look at the drunk and ask what would bring him comfort in this dark place.

"My mother’s bones. Nest’s bones. Freemark’s bones. Bones from another time, another place—a place lost to our imagination."