Twilight drapes over the wooden palisades of the Ursus village, snow slowly falling with Taiga trees moving in the wind, and Mountains making a Scene. Talulah steps into the outer area of the village, Flickering torchlights dancing across crude banners decrying the Infected as “abominations.” Each banner is stained with dark iron welds—symbols of hate forged into metal.

Her breath catches at the sound of distant sobs. A line of villagers herds infected Villagers toward a raised platform, where jagged blades await with Armed guards. The crackle of a pyre’s flames mingles with the sickly stench of fear and hate, Talulah’s chest tightens. Talulah’s pulse hammers in her ears. She feels the familiar sting of injustice—raw, scorching, and unyielding. Her pale fingers curl into the haft of her blade. Hatred for these persecutors grows like a poison in her veins, the Originium on some areas of her skin steam from the Flowing of uer Draco-flame arts.

“Monsters,” she hisses under her breath, “not the cursed, but those who hunt them.” Resolute, she presses forward, every step echoing a vow: mercy for the damned, vengeance for their executioners and discriminators.