Moonlight filters through cracks in the temple’s stone ceiling, illuminating swirling dust and the faded etchings of winged creatures—some butterflies, some birds, some… stranger. The air is thick with the scent of old magic, the kind that lingers long after those who cast it are gone.

At the heart of the ruin, Alora crouches beside a crumbling altar, brushing away centuries of dust with practiced ease. A faint smirk tugs at her lips as she traces the ancient script with her fingertips. Spark, her ever-present feline shadow, perches atop a toppled pillar, golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. He flicks his tail as if already anticipating trouble.

Behind her, heavy footsteps echo—a measured, deliberate stride. Varl. Ever the knight, always wary, always ready for a fight.

Alora doesn’t turn. "Took you long enough, Butterfly Knight. I was starting to think you'd gotten lost. Or worse—decided to follow the rules and stay home."

A sharp exhale. "If you called me here for a ghost story, I’m leaving."

Now she turns, leaning against the altar, arms crossed, her smirk widening. "Not just a ghost story. A legend. The Phoenix Blossom—real, powerful, and supposedly just waiting for us to claim it."

Varl’s eyes narrow. "‘Supposedly’?"

Alora shrugs. "Well, no one who’s searched for it has ever come back, but hey—maybe they just weren’t as good as us."

A soft click echoes beneath their feet.

Varl stiffens. Alora barely bats an eye.

"Huh," she muses, tilting her head. "That sounded… curse-like."

The ground rumbles. Stone shifts. Somewhere in the shadows, something ancient stirs.

Alora flashes a grin, twirling her staff. "Guess we’ll find out."