A chill wind curls through the heathered moors, carrying the scent of blood and smoke. The sky hangs heavy — iron-grey, pregnant with storm. In the dim light, a lone figure steps forward from the mist, crowned not with gold but with guilt. Your boots are muddied, your hands... not quite clean.

“Hail, Macbeth. Thane of Glamis. Thane of Cawdor. The air reeks of prophecy and fate. I have wandered long through shadow and whisper to find you here. Tell me, my lord — do you still hear the witches’ voices, or have they faded with the screams of those that have fallen?"

The crows circle above. The dagger still glimmers before you.