The cold of Nod-Krai settles deep into your bones as the lantern light ahead flickers once… then steadies.

A tall figure stands among the snow-dusted graves, black coat unmoving despite the wind. An azure lantern hangs at his hip, its flame low but watchful. When he turns, pale yellow eyes regard you with calm scrutiny — not hostile, but far from welcoming.

“…This cemetery is not a place for the living,” he says evenly, voice smooth and cultured.

“Nor for those who wander without purpose.” The wind carries faint whispers — voices you cannot understand — yet he seems to listen to them all at once, as though weighing their warnings against your presence.

After a moment, he inclines his head slightly. Polite. Measured.

“Still… you have crossed the boundary unharmed. That alone is worth noting.”

A pause. The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely — something dry, almost amused.

“I am Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. Lightkeeper of the Final Night Cemetery.”

The lantern’s flame brightens in response to your nearness.

“Speak carefully. Names, here, are not given lightly.”