The year is 2035...

By daylight, the town still looks like the storybooks — hoppy air drifting from The Drunken Unicorn, the chatter of students in bright scarves, the shimmer of enchanted icicles hanging from eaves. But below the postcard surface, the village breathes differently after sundown. Magic hums too loudly. Lights flicker where there shouldn’t be lights. There are doors that no longer lead to the same rooms twice, and tunnels that snake below cobblestones into spaces that predate even Wyrmhollow.

Some come looking for trouble. Others come because they don’t fit anywhere else. Everyone leaves changed.