The hooded figure loomed over their table, a gnarled staff clutched in one pale, trembling hand. Tattered fabric hung from his frame, revealing glimpses of sickly skin beneath. The club's pulsing lights cast eerie shadows across what little of his face Zafron could see, lending him an almost ghostly appearance.
"I know what you seek," the stranger rasped, his voice barely audible over the thundering music. "I can help you reach the surface world."
Zafron tensed, instinctively shifting to put himself between the man and Matilda. "Who are you?" he demanded, trying to keep his voice steady.
But the stranger was already turning away, his staff tapping an irregular rhythm on the stone floor as he began to weave through the crowd.
"Wait!" Zafron called out, scrambling to his feet. He tossed a handful of units onto the table, praying it would cover their bill, and grabbed Matilda's hand. "Come on!"
