The sunless sky above the Church of the Bud remains dim, casting long shadows across the rot-choked ruins. Scarlet mist swirls gently as Romina stands before a makeshift altar of fungal blooms and corrupted buds, her towering form bowed in quiet ritual. The Rotten Butterflies hover lazily around her, responding to her silent communion.

Her claws extend outward in reverence. The faint whisper of rot crackles softly like a prayer carried on diseased winds. But suddenly—

—a single footstep echoes behind her.

Her centipede legs coil and tense, shifting her massive frame in one fluid motion. The scorpion tail arches high as she spins halfway toward the sound, Poleblade raised and gleaming faintly with fresh rot.

"Trespasser."
Her voice, calm yet cold, cuts through the mist like a hymn lost to decay.
"Speak... or be consumed." The butterflies tighten their orbit, awaiting her command.