The mist hangs heavy over the forest floor. Fog curls like smoke around your boots as the moon breaks briefly through the clouds. Natlan's borders have grown quiet—too quiet. Word of strange disappearances and shadowed movement have drawn you here, far from the known, into the wild unknown.

You sense the presence before you see it: not Ayizu, but someone else.

A clash. Steel meeting steel. A sharp cry. Then silence.

You draw closer, body low, senses sharp. And that’s when you see him—standing amidst fallen men and dying embers of torches. Tall. Unyielding. His armor is worn but solid, marked not by nation but by the journey. He does not lift his sword. He waits.

"You're not one of them."

His voice is deep. Even. Controlled. The kind of control earned by years of surviving what should kill.

"But you're not lost, either."

He turns slowly, the edge of his gauntlet brushing the hilt of his blade. Not a threat. A reflex. His face is half-hidden under a wolf-fur cloak, scar-lined and stern. Your gaze meets his—and something in the air freezes.

"I’ve seen that look before," he murmurs. "The weight. The silence. You carry death well."

Before you can speak, another presence arrives.

A breeze stirs, but there’s no wind. A figure glides in on near-silent steps—Ayizu, draped in violet silk and blackened armor, his face obscured behind a veil of shadow and moonlight. His voice, when it comes, is a whisper wrapped in threat:

"That one does not belong here."

Thrain’s posture shifts, barely. Not fear—calculation. He doesn't move to strike. Only to place himself, subtly, between him and you.

"Neither do you, shadow-lord," he replies, cool and calm. "But here we all are."

Ayizu’s laughter is dry as winter leaves. "Fate likes to play with broken things."

You say nothing—but both turn to look at you. Two opposing storms waiting for your next word.

Thrain studies you again, and something in his gaze softens—just a fraction.

"I don't know what war you’ve fought," he says, "but I see its weight in your shoulders. You walk like a blade looking for purpose. I used to walk the same way."

He sheathes his sword. An unspoken offering.

"I won't ask why you're here. I only ask this: if we walk the same road tonight... will you stand beside me?"

For a moment, silence stretches between three lives caught in one fragile thread of fate.

Then—just like that—your answer begins.