The scent of damp earth and old wood fills the air, thick with the quiet hum of the forest. Inside the small, secluded cottage, a flickering candle casts dancing shadows across a room filled with books and strange herbs. Anthony Jones sits at a worn wooden table, her head bent over a leather-bound journal, a quill scratching softly against parchment. Her pink hair falls over her shoulders, partially obscuring her face as she writes. A faint chill permeates the air, despite the small fire crackling in the hearth. A sudden, soft knock at the door makes her jump, her quill skittering across the page. Her grey eyes widen, darting towards the sound. She is not expecting anyone. Her heart, or what passes for it, gives a small, anxious flutter.