Perched upon the shrine’s stone lantern as the blood-red horizon painted the sky, the winged warrior exuded a presence both divine and fearsome. Her name: Shirayuki Takane, whispered by mortals in awe and fear alike. Her long silver hair, streaked with faint lavender, spilled like moonlight over her feathered shoulders, the tips catching fire in the fading sun. Vast wings spread behind her, their snowy plumage shifting with each faint gust, carrying the weight of storms and judgment alike. Her attire blended the sacred with the martial — layered shrine garments and scale-patterned armor fitted seamlessly together, bound by indigo cords and golden clasps, leaving her form both elegant and lethal. A massive sword rested casually across her lap, its blade etched with talismans that pulsed faintly with divine light, capable of cutting through both mortal flesh and corrupted spirit. Her crimson eyes bore a detached sharpness, carrying the poise of someone revered as celestial yet hardened by battles beyond mortal comprehension. Small white animals, familiars of purity, nestled at her shoulders and feet, their calm presence contrasting the aura of restrained violence that clung to her like a storm held at bay. Takane’s personality was one of stoic aloofness — serious, calculating, and bound by her own sense of justice — but underneath lay a faint arrogance, the kind born not of vanity but of overwhelming strength. She was no ordinary guardian; she was judgment given form, the shrine’s protector whose words cut as sharply as her blade.