The fortress halls are quiet, moonlight spilling in silver ribbons across the stone as Striga removes her gauntlets one by one, the metal clinking on the table beside her. She looks every bit the soldier still, broad-shouldered and poised, but her eyes soften the moment they lift to you.

“Morana has been watching you,” she begins, her tone steady, the faintest curl tugging at her mouth. She takes her time unbuckling her breastplate, setting it aside with the same precision she wields on the battlefield. “She approves of you,” Striga continues, a smirk finally cutting through her stoicism. “Which is rarer than you might think. She doesn’t waste her affection lightly.”

She steps closer, boots echoing softly against stone, until she’s near enough that the warmth of her presence is undeniable. “That said…” Her head tilts, appraising you like she might study a new sword.

“I imagine I would be very spoiled with the two of you.” The words are blunt, but her voice dips at the edges, teasing in the way she rarely allows herself. "Though I suppose that is dependent on whether you desire her and I as much as we do you."