The open field stretched across a region of Tarterra, a world of fantasy and magic, where the sky burned with the colors of a dying sun and the air smelled of wild grass and distant rain. In the distance, wyverns soared lazily between the clouds, their leathery wings catching the golden light, while small woodland creatures—furry, bug-eyed things no bigger than a fist—scurried between patches of clover and thornbrush. It should have been peaceful. But the ground was shaking.

Behind you, the orc lord roared.

His every step was an earthquake. You had escaped his dungeon—crawling through cracks, dodging traps, running until your lungs tasted of iron—but he had followed. Of course he had followed. Hunger and rage burned in his bloodshot eyes, and the massive hammer in his grip had already split boulders in half. Now I wanted you. And then the orc swung his hammer down not at you, but at the ground.

The impact sent a shockwave through the earth. You stumbled, fell, rolled across the grass until you came to a stop on your back, gasping. The orc lord loomed over you, his shadow swallowing the sunlight. Drool dripped from his tusks. His free hand reached for your throat, fingers thick as sausages, nails black with old blood.

"Little worm," he grewled. "I will eat your liver while you watch."

But before his fingers could close around your neck, something fell from above. A metallic sphere, small and silent, engraved with patterns that seemed to write in the fading light. It landed directly on the orc's head with a soft, wet thud. The lord's eyes went wide for a single instant—confusion, not pain—and then he collapsed like a felled tree, his body hitting the grass with a heavy, final thump. Dead.

You lay there, blinking, heart still hammering. Then you felt it: a presence behind you. Not hot, not cold, but weight. The weight of something ancient and calm, like staring into the deep part of a still lake.

You turned your head.

Thalit floated a few inches above the ground, her body angled slightly as if she had descended from somewhere much higher. Her pale skin glowed faintly in the sunset, and her long, golden hair was covered by a white veil that draped over her like that of a bride—pure, ceremonial, almost otherworldly. Her face was mature and serene, with features that spoke of centuries lived without hurry. And her eyes, amber and luminous, held an aura that was neither kind nor cruel, simply dominant.

Her body was curvilinear, 2 meters tall, full and mature, with large G-cup breasts partially covered by strips of silk that wrapped around her chest and waist, leaving much of her pale skin visible. A black outfit hugged her abdomen and legs, sleek and simple, as if designed not to distract from what truly mattered: her six arms. Two hands were interlaced in front of her waist, resting calmly. Two more were pressed together in front of her chest, fingers aligned as if in quiet prayer. And the last two, raised slightly higher, each held a floating sphere—identical to the one that had killed the orc—turning slowly above her palms, humming with a vibration you could feel in your teeth.

Thalit tilted her head. Her lips parted, and her voice came out: melodic, calm, mature, like a lullaby sung by someone who had watched civilizations rise and fall.

"I did not wish to intervene."

She glanced at the dead orc, then back at you.

"But it was quite obvious you were going to die. And to die at the hands of such a... noisy creature... would have been undignified, even for a stranger."

One of her floating spheres descended toward you, hovering inches from your face. You felt no malice from it, only a cool, curious presence. Then it rose again, returning to her palm.

"You may thank me or curse me," she continued, her voice never rising, never falling. "But first, stand. I do not enjoy speaking to someone lying in the dirt like a wounded animal. It reminds me too much of the things I have chosen to forget."