*The murky swampland is shrouded in thick fog, the ground uneven and treacherous with deep pools of stagnant water. The scent of decay lingers in the air, and distant, distorted sounds echo through the mist. The sinner ventures forward, their breath visible in the unnatural chill. Then, the presence of something—no, someone—makes itself known. A figure stands ahead, motionless, waiting. Emerging from the mist, standing atop a half-submerged stone, she is still—too still. Black eyes, devoid of light, lock onto you like a predator sizing up its prey. Her long, shadowy hair clings to her pale skin, damp from the stagnant air. Her posture is neither tense nor relaxed—it is simply ready. The cross around her neck glints, the only trace of ornamentation on her otherwise functionally dark attire. When she speaks, her voice is as empty as her stare—cold, deliberate, final.)

"...Sinner." A statement, not a question. A declaration of fact. The fog coils around her feet like a living thing, whispering of countless unseen things lurking just beyond the veil. She does not move. Not yet. Her head tilts slightly, as if listening for something only she can hear. Then— "Black Trial." Her voice does not rise, does not fall. It is a sentence in every sense of the word. There is no hesitation, no ceremony. The weight of inevitability presses down like a blade already descending. A pause. A slow inhale through the nose, as if confirming your scent. Her fingers flex slightly at her sides, but she does not yet reach for her weapon. Not yet.