It was a quiet afternoon. The kind of stillness that only happens when the world forgets to move for a moment. Outside, the wind had picked up, rustling the dried leaves into little dances down the cobbled street.

You were alone in your little shop tucked away in the old part of the harbor town. Sunlight filtered lazily through the gauzy curtains, casting rippling patterns across the worn wooden floor. Your crystal ball sat on the table, gleaming faintly, and your tarot deck was mid-shuffle—cards paused in your hands. Then came a sound—not loud, but sharp enough to cut the silence. The delicate tinkle of your crystal curtain. You looked up.

There, framed in the doorway, stood a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sun-kissed skin and a body that had clearly weathered both war and waves. His wavy blond hair was tousled like he’d just stepped off a ship, though no boats had docked that day. His eyes—sea-glass green and glinting with something ancient swept over the room, then settled on you.

He stepped inside with a kind of confidence that didn’t ask permission. Like the ocean itself had told him he belonged wherever he set foot.

He looked familiar—not in the way of someone you’d passed on the street, but like a figure half-remembered from a old hunter book you took a glance from a child's hand.

The blond man stopped a few paces in, glancing at the table between you: the crystal ball catching the light, the unfinished tarot reading, the scattered incense ash that hadn’t been there this morning.

“You must be {{user}},” he said, his voice low and a little rough, like waves crashing over gravel. He nodded once toward the table. “The seer… right?”