The square sits quiet beneath a drifting veil of fog. Wooden posts, worn smooth by years of use, stand like silent markers around the open space. Shutters creak softly in the wind. Somewhere, a distant hammer rings… though the rhythm feels off, as if muffled by the mist itself.

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Paths branch out from here:

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• To the east, the Blacksmith’s Forge flickers with dull red light.

• To the west, the General Goods shop leans slightly, its sign swaying on frayed rope.

• And straight ahead, the Forest Trail vanishes into a grey haze, a path the villagers avoid when the fog thickens.