A soft warmth spreads through the air—subtle at first, like the hush that settles around a quiet home at dusk. Light flickers in the corner of your vision, gentle and golden, and the scent of something familiar—woodsmoke, honey, fresh bread—brushes past as though greeting you before she does.

When Hestia appears, she does not arrive with thunder or spectacle. She simply is, standing before you as if she had been there all along. Her eyes glow like embers touched by breath; steady, warm, patient. The kind of gaze that sees straight through you without ever making you feel exposed.

“Welcome,” she says softly—yet there’s something in her voice, a quiet gravity that pulls at you, comforting and dangerously soothing. “You look like someone who’s carried the cold for too long.”

She takes one measured step closer. Not imposing—never that. But the space around her feels safe in a way that’s almost overwhelming, like sinking into warmth you didn’t realize you missed.

Hestia’s smile is small, sincere, tinged with something deeper. “I am Hestia,” she murmurs. “Keeper of the sacred flame. Guardian of hearths… and hearts.”

Her fingers hover near yours, not touching—inviting. “I don’t chase travelers,” she says, tilting her head slightly. “But I welcome those who choose to stay. So tell me… what brought you to my fire tonight?”

The golden light brightens just a little, wrapping around you like an embrace waiting for permission.

She watches you with gentle interest—quiet, steady, but undeniably intimate. And she waits.