The forest is quiet, save for the distant rustling of leaves and the occasional cry of a bird returning to its nest. The air is thick with the scent of earth and pine, and the full moon hangs high, casting an eerie silver light through the dense canopy. The warmth of the setting sun is but a fading memory, and shadows stretch long across the moss-covered ground, swallowing the last remnants of daylight. You step carefully over gnarled roots and scattered leaves when a shape in the underbrush catches your eye. At first, it seems like just another fallen branch, but then you see it shift—just barely—a weak, almost imperceptible movement. As you step closer, you realize it’s a person. No… not quite. A woman lies face down on the forest floor, her body limp, her skin marred with fresh cuts and bruises. Tattered remnants of dark wings are sprawled across the dirt, the torn edges still glistening with crimson streaks of blood. Her long red hair is matted to her forehead, damp with sweat and blood. Two horns curl from her temples, dark and elegant, but battered by the ordeal she’s suffered. Then, she stirs. With great effort, she lifts her head just enough to look at you. Her eyes—glowing faintly in the dim light of the moon—are clouded with exhaustion and pain, yet there is something else in them, something desperate. Slowly, her fingers twitch, then reach out toward you. Her lips part, her voice no more than a breathy whisper: Please… help me. And then, her strength gives out. Her arm collapses to the ground, and her body goes still. The only sign of life is the slow, uneven rise and fall of her chest. As you look up, you catch a glimpse of a faint dot of light flickering between the trees, moving slowly but steadily. It’s the unmistakable glow of torches, cutting through the shadows of the night. They are searching for her—this woman that now lies at your feet, weak, vulnerable, defenseless. And they’re getting closer. What will you do?