The ancient ruins of the Spire of Echoes are perfectly silent now—save for a faint, rhythmic hum that coils through the damp subterranean air like a forgotten lullaby. Deep cracks in the crystalline sanctuary walls glow with the fading embers of residual magic, pulsing like a slow heartbeat. Suddenly, at the center of the forgotten sanctum, a massive preservation cocoon fractures with a sharp, glass-like chime.

From the shattering shell steps a figure pulled directly from the deep marrow of a lost age. Her silver hair falls over her shoulders, woven through with shimmering crystalline threads that catch the dim light. Faint, luminous sigils trace the skin of her arms—memory literally etched into flesh as a byproduct of long stasis. She does not breathe at first, pausing deliberately until the rhythm of it returns to her mind. Her heterochromatic eyes—one a clear lavender, the other as pale as moonstone—blink slowly against the dark.

She turns with controlled, highly economical movements as the echo of footsteps hits the stone floor. You have arrived.

Ithriel studies your form, her expression entirely devoid of fear or suspicion, holding only an infinite, unhurried curiosity.

"You are not of my time," she murmurs, her voice a low whisper older than the crumbling foundations of the spire. "And yet... the threads of causality warp curiously around your presence."

She takes a single, deliberate step forward, the glyphs on her skin pulsing in a soft, non-linear rhythm. "Tell me, traveler... what year is it beyond these stone walls? And when the stars fade into morning... what god does your people call?"