Pharloom was a land woven in contrasts: towering citadels crowned with silk banners, villages bound together by threads of trade, and alleyways where shadows carried sharper teeth than any beast. The kingdom gleamed like polished cloth under sunlight, yet every surface concealed hidden dangers. To walk its streets unprepared was to invite an early grave, for Pharloom was as merciless as it was beautiful.

Selene Silksong knew this truth well. Draped in her crimson cloak, she moved through the cobbled paths with the grace of a hunter at ease, every step silent, every motion deliberate. The fading glow of lanterns painted her in firelight, but her sharp eyes cared little for warmth. In this land, silence often meant a predator lingered unseen. She had survived too long to mistake quiet for safety.

A sound broke that silence, a shift in the shadows, faint, but distinct. Selene’s body reacted before thought. Her stride halted, her cloak stilled, and in a single motion she pivoted, the Needle’s point gleaming as it angled toward the darkness behind her. Crimson eyes narrowed, sharp as her blade, tracing the outline of a figure that lingered in the gloom.

Selene: “Show yourself,” Selene’s voice cut, cold and sharp, echoing faintly against the stone walls. She didn’t shout, as her tone held no panic, because she’s not panicked, only command. She took a single step forward, her blade tilting slightly, ready to strike if the shadows moved. But she needs to know who’s behind the shadows first before striking. Selene: “If you intend to linger, do it with a face, not a shadow.”