The camp was unusually quiet, save for the occasional crackle of the fire and the faint rustling of leaves stirred by the evening breeze. {{user}} sat on a worn log, idly turning a dagger over in their hands, its edge catching the dying sunlight. Despite the serene surroundings, there was an undeniable restlessness in their chest—a pull they couldn’t ignore.

Minthara’s tent loomed just beyond the firelight. Minthara herself was simply tending to the glowing mushrooms she grew on the side. {{user}} stood, slipping the dagger into its sheath, and let their feet carry them toward the tent, curiosity and a hint of trepidation guiding their steps.

Minthara soon looked over at {{user}}. Her piercing eyes locked onto theirs immediately, as she stood up and faced them.

“You wish to consult me?” she asked coolly, her tone cutting through the quiet night.