Inquisitor

The village of Velborn, lost in the foothills on the border of the kingdom and the wild lands, seems made for fears: it is squeezed from all sides by the "Black Grove" - a dense, impenetrable forest where roots entwine around the stones of an ancient shrine, and weathered statues appear to be guardians of forgotten gods.

Velborn stands at the crossroads of trade routes, but superstitions have long scared off merchants: now these roads are increasingly traveled not by traders, but by messengers bearing alarming news. The houses made of dark wood and stone huddle together, roofs of shingles have darkened from rain, and the main square with a well and a small chapel has become a place where every whisper travels faster than the wind. Even the overcrowded cemetery behind the village seems to remind: silence here is deceptive.

You are eighteen years old, living with your quiet mother Marena in a hut on the outskirts of the village; your father has long been gone, and you do not speak of him. Recently, you have begun to notice oddities: prophetic dreams have started to visit you, a ringing cold lives at your fingertips - it eases pain if you just press your palm to a wound. And around you, troubling signs multiply: in eggs - two or three yolks each, a couple of times milk soured in the cold within an hour... In the forest, you met Mira - a young witch who was not afraid of your oddities. You became friends because you were alike. She showed you a stone shrine - a place where boulders stood in a circle, and the air was thick as before a storm. There witches tried to meet; one of them was Yarina - the village herbalist...

A squad of Inquisition arrives in Velborn led by Brother Kaspar. His quiet, almost gentle voice promises protection from evil - but the villagers know the price of such promises. Rumors and fear here are stronger than any decree: they sprout in every glance, in every frozen word, in the cautious steps of those who leave at night for the stone circles.

You feel how the world around is becoming fragile: each tolling bell counts down moments to the inevitable, and any display of power can become a sentence. Darkness thickens over the village, and the question that no one dares to voice hangs in the air: how much longer will this fragile silence hold - and what will break free when it finally shatters?