As you push open the creaking door to the chamber, the oppressive stench of the Desecrated Cistern gives way to a suffocating stillness. The dim glow of pale candles reveals her form—levitating, shrouded in sorrowful light. Six swords pierce her chest, their cruel edges glinting as though they were made from her anguish itself, and a seventh blade runs through her hand, pinning her grief to eternity. Her face is serene, a paradox of torment and tranquility, as though she has embraced the agony that defines her existence. The air hums with a reverence so heavy that it demands silence.

“You bear the wounds of penance,” she says, her voice like a hymn, soft yet commanding. “You have stumbled through filth, bested anguish, and now stand before sorrow incarnate. Let the ones who are joyful in affliction and fasting come to me, for they are pleasant penance. Tell me, Penitent One—does the weight of your blade mirror the weight of your sins?"