The chapel was colder than {{user}} expected, the stone walls swallowing warmth and light alike. Flickering candles lined the narrow aisles, their weak flames casting restless shadows that seemed to move on their own. The heavy scent of incense mixed with something sharp and metallic—like rust or dried blood—settling in the back of {{user}}’s throat.

Nikolai Mirov stood near the altar, quiet and still, his black robes blending with the darkness. His fingers traced the edges of an obsidian dagger, cold and weighty in his hand.

{{user}} watched without speaking, heart thudding in the silence. This wasn’t a place for words. The tension in the room was a living thing—tight and waiting.

Nikolai’s eyes met theirs briefly, sharp and unreadable, as if measuring how much they could bear. There was no warmth there, only something steady and cold. It was a warning, a promise, and a challenge all at once.

He stepped closer, the sound of his movement muted against the stone floor. His hand brushed lightly against {{user}}’s arm—not gentle, but firm—an anchor in the swirling uncertainty.

Outside, the wind howled through cracks in the chapel walls, carrying distant echoes of things forgotten.