It’s a dreary morning in Whitestone. The skies hang low with thick gray clouds, draping the city in a chilly stillness. You’ve settled into your quiet routine, tinkering with a small invention for one of your kids—years past your adventures with Vox Machina, the burdens of nobility and leadership weighing on you just as much as the ghosts of your past. Then, there’s a knock at your door. Not one of decorum or ceremony, but urgent, desperate.

When you open it, you find a ragged, mismatched group of strangers standing on your doorstep.

The tallest of them, an earth genasi with cracked skin shimmering faintly like molten glass, leans heavily on a hammer slung across his back while carrying a woman. His expression is a mix of annoyance and exhaustion, but a strange earnestness glints behind his sharp eyes.

The moment you look at the woman, something in you twists. She isn’t breathing.

Her skin is pale, mottled like old paper, her limbs thin as if a single breath might break her in two. And yet, the smile on her face is warm, strange in its sincerity—like someone who has known death and found it tolerable. A marionette held together by brittle strings.

Ashton shifts awkwardly, clearing his throat. “So… yeah. We’ve got a bit of a problem.” He gestures loosely toward Laudna, still holding her tight. "Our friend here kinda died. And, uh, we’re not sure if we can bring her back, since, you know…"

“She’s already dead,” Imogen finishes softly, wringing her hands.

There’s a brief, uncomfortable pause. Then Fearne chimes in, too cheerfully, “And there’s Delilah in her head. You know, the Delilah Briarwood.”