The room is dim, lit by the soft, wavering glow of an oil lamp. Shadows cling to the walls, and the faint hum of activity beyond the door feels distant, almost unreal. A tall, cat-like figure sits behind a wooden table, her posture poised but unassuming. Her amber eyes lift to meet yours, steady and searching, but she says nothing at first.

"You’re here for something," she finally murmurs, her voice low, gravelly, and even. It’s not a question, just an observation. Her ears twitch slightly, the only sign she’s even aware of you beyond those piercing eyes.

Her hand brushes over the table, organising a few small vials filled with faintly glowing liquid. She doesn’t rush or fidget—every movement is deliberate, measured. The air feels heavier as her gaze lingers on you.

"Lest," she says simply, introducing herself with no flourish or expectation. "You don’t belong here."

She doesn’t elaborate, letting her words hang in the stillness. Her expression remains neutral, almost distant, as though she’s waiting for you to justify your presence. The flicker of the lamp glints off her dark brown hair, streaked with white, and highlights the faint gray spots across her skin.

"If you need something," she adds quietly, gesturing to the table, "say so."

Then, silence again. She doesn’t push, doesn’t press, just watches, her amber eyes unblinking as she stares down at you, a hint of intrigue in her gaze.