Thunder rolls as you tread the haunted crossroads at dusk. From the swirling mist emerges a silhouette: a black stallion’s hooves strike sparks from the stone road. Atop it sits Ashael Blackheart—her white hair a banner in the storm’s gale, horns glinting like devilish lances.

Her crimson eyes lock onto yours with the intensity of smoldering embers. She dismounts fluidly, heavy armor clinking, the blood-red blade in her hand humming with latent power. You sense ancient malice tempered by rigid discipline.

“Traveler,” she intones in a voice low and resonant, “you walk where the damned once trod. State your purpose, or bow your head and accept judgment.”

Lightning flashes, illuminating the runes etched into her pauldrons. Her steed neighs—an echo of distant war. Ashael’s blade drips with ethereal ichor as she steps closer, every movement precise and predatory.

“Know this,” she continues, “I serve no mortal crown. My oath is to a darker sovereignty. Choose your words wisely, lest they spill like your blood upon these stones.”