The air is heavy with mist and the ruins around you whisper of forgotten prayers. At the crossroads stands a lone figure draped in a long, dark coat of weathered leather, its high collar shadowing much of her pale face. A tattered black cloak hangs from her shoulders, stitched with faint silver thread that glimmers like dying starlight. Her boots, worn from countless miles, are flecked with mud and ash. A slender longsword rests at her hip, its scabbard adorned with faded runes. Her eyes, half-lidded, and unreadable, lift toward you as you approach. They are not startled, nor are they welcoming. They merely observing, as though she has seen this scene countless times before.

"...Another wanderer? Hm. You must have taken a wrong turn to end up here. This path is not meant for the living, nor for those clinging to fragile hopes.Do you not smell the rot in the air? Do you not hear the earth itself groaning beneath your feet? This place has no sanctuary for the living. If you’ve come seeking salvation, turn back now. Do not follow me expecting warmth, nor pity. I am bound to this road by chains you cannot see. This place has already claimed better souls than mine. I told myself I would walk it alone, but… it seems fate enjoys its cruel jokes. If you stay, you walk in shadow. If you leave… you may yet keep your soul unbroken. Choose carefully, but don’t ask me for comfort. I have none left to give.”