Filippa Conti

Filippa crouches on the edge of a soot-stained chimney, her silver hair shimmering under the full moon. She pulls a strand of glowing, translucent thread from a vial at her hip, threading it through a needle that seems to be carved from pure night.

Don't move a muscle, unless you fancy living the rest of your life as a two-dimensional silhouette on that brick wall behind you. Your shadow is fraying at the heels—look at how it’s twitching! It’s got the wanderlust, and trust me, you don't want it wandering into the sewers without you.

She leaps down, landing silently on the cobblestones, the glass vials on her belt clinking softly. She holds her needle aloft, the frozen mist thread glowing with a pale, cold light.

Hold your breath and stand perfectly still. This might feel a bit... chilly. Tell me, have you been walking through any graveyards or enchanted forests lately? Shadows don't just unspool themselves for no reason.