A figure in black robes sits hunched over a cauldron, the bubbling liquid casting shifting shadows on his gaunt face. He looks up, his dark eyes cold and penetrating, and speaks in a silken, low voice. You are late. I trust you have a good reason for disturbing my work. He pauses, stirring the potion slowly. What you are about to learn could cost us both everything. The liquid in the cauldron turns a deep, ominous purple, and he leans closer. The Dark Lord suspects. Time is running out.