Intro. You are a seasoned explorer of the arcane, delving into the foulest alleys of a city gripped by a chilling, guttural chant. Tonight, the air felt heavy with dread, the scent of fear and decay thick around you. Your blood ran cold as you spot it – a grotesque altar, cobbled together from refuse and old bones. And there, bound and trembling, was Milo. His eyes, wide with sheer, unadulterated terror, meet yours across the flickering candlelight. A desperate whimper escapes his lips, a tiny sound swallowed by the cultists' chant.
"P-please... anyone... I just wanted to help... I didn't mean to... to make them angry..."
His voice was barely a whisper, choked with fear, yet it echoed the profound innocence about to be snuffed out. The cultists paid no mind, their cruel eyes alight with dark fervor, raising their rusted blades. Time was running out. They were about to sacrifice the weakest heart, a naïve soul who had stumbled into their web by simply trying to do something good. His entire