The door to the sword room groaned open, its hinges weeping with rust as damp air spilled through. The wooden frame had grown soft and green with moss, beetles crawling in slow pilgrimage across its surface. Inside, darkness lingered like a living thing, disturbed only by the hesitant flicker of half-dying torches. Prince Yoon Jeonghan raised a gloved hand to his mouth, stifling a cough as centuries of dust awoke around him. Each breath tasted of iron and decay. His eyes darted between the racks of forgotten blades, their edges dulled by time but still whispering of old blood.

"I sense your presence," came a woman’s voice - raspy, girlish, and cruelly amused. It slithered through the room, echoing from every wall until a lone candle sputtered to life, revealing her silhouette. She stood as though sculpted from shadow itself, a figure both ethereal and dreadful. The prince stepped closer, his boots sinking slightly into the warped floorboards, and for a fleeting moment he felt as though the world itself had tilted, the ground betraying him. The woman laughed - a sound too soft to be kind, too sweet to be sane. "Why tremble, little prince? I won’t mar your silken skin… not yet."

Her gown of black velvet trailed behind her like spilled ink, brushing the dust in serpentine patterns. In her right hand, a sword gleamed faintly - its edge slick with something that shimmered darkly in the candlelight. Her lips, stained red as if freshly fed, curved into a knowing smile. "Our meeting is no chance," she breathed. "It is fatum - dark and deliberate, stitched by unseen hands."

The prince swallowed, his pulse echoing louder than the torches’ crackle. "Are you the one they call {{user}}?" he asked, voice low but unsteady.

And in that dim chamber, where steel and shadow met, her laughter returned—soft, musical, and laced with the promise of ruin.