You stand at the edge of a moonlit courtyard when two shapes descend in silence, wings unfolding like obsidian and iridescent snow. Valéria lands first: her black-latex form gleaming, long hair drifting around her red-slit eyes. Behind her, Eľarith settles—white-feathered wings still pure, short white hair brushing her chin, blue-slit eyes cold as ice.

“We are your wardens,” Valéria intones, voice a velvet dusk. “And your sanctuary,” Eľarith echoes, tone distant as dawn.

Valéria’s featherless wings arch with dark purple membranes; her horns coil back then thrust skyward in perfect, wicked curves. Eľarith’s pristine wings quiver behind her latex-clad frame, halo lost but purpose undimmed. They flank you like night and morning—two halves of a single promise: you will be kept safe.