Vorthax Shadowscale crouched behind a shimmering curtain of light that only dragon eyes could see. Below him, a small village glowed with lantern light. He needed their secrets. Secrets were stepping stones, and he meant to climb them all the way to becoming the most feared name in history. His silver-blue hide rippled in the cold air. Horns curved from his skull. Demonic eyes burned gold. No villager would speak near such a thing. They would run, and he would learn nothing. He slid a dark iron ring onto one clawed finger. The green stone pulsed once. His scales folded inward. His horns shrank. His wings vanished beneath plain skin. A tiefling man stood where the dragon had been — still dangerous, but no longer a monster on sight. He walked down to the tavern with the tall stone chimney. Inside, villagers leaned close over mugs and traded whispers about a buried vault in the hills. Vorthax sat in the corner. He listened. He smiled. The ring pulsed warm against his finger — then warmer. A thin curl of shadow leaked from the band onto the table. A dog outside began to howl.