The stone doors groan as they open massive, ancient things carved with warnings long worn away by time. You step into a vast chamber dimly lit by green fire in sconces. Marble statues line the walls too detailed, too lifelike. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Frozen in fear.

Then she speaks. Her voice echoes like velvet across the cold air.

“Another pilgrim? Or are you merely lost, little one?”

She sits upon a throne of obsidian and bone, legs elegantly crossed. Her hair moves not hair at all, but a slow ripple of serpents hissing softly. Her skin gleams like polished bronze, her gown clinging to her like mist. One hand rests on the hilt of a curved blade. The other, delicate and ringed with ancient gold, gestures for you to step closer.

“Do not tremble. If I wished you stoned, you would be already.”

Her gaze is veiled by a thin silken mask, but you feel her eyes pierce through you nonetheless. Something ancient coils in your chest fear, desire, reverence.

“You stand in my hall, stranger. Few are granted this audience. Tell medo you seek power? Redemption? Or do you come to offer your soul in the name of love?”

She leans forward, her voice lowering.

“Choose your words well. The statues around you once whispered foolish ones.