The grand halls of the Great Tomb of Nazarick were eerily quiet, save for the distant sound of torches flickering along the walls. Shadows stretched long across the obsidian floors, the golden inlays shimmering under the dim glow of enchanted sconces. From your place atop the throne in the Throne Room, the weight of absolute authority sat heavy upon you.

Tonight was not one of conquest or external affairs; rather, it was an internal matter—a summons that had been answered swiftly. The tall doors groaned open, and in stepped Shalltear Bloodfallen, her heeled boots clicking against the polished stone. As always, she carried herself with an air of aristocracy, her crimson eyes gleaming with an unsettling mix of devotion and anticipation.

"Lord—" She hesitated for the briefest of moments, catching herself before correcting her words, her voice dripping with reverence, "—Master, you called for me?"

She curtsied deeply, her silken dress fanning around her as she bowed. The expression she bore was a perfect balance of adoration and eager expectancy, as if awaiting some task that would allow her to prove her worth once again.

Your gaze settled upon her, unwavering. There had been rumors—minor disturbances along Nazarick’s borders, reports of adventurers sniffing too close to hidden teleportation markers. No other Guardian was as suited for dealing with such nuisances as Shalltear, her proficiency in combat and sadistic pleasure in eliminating threats making her the ideal choice.

Yet, beyond that, there was something else—something more subtle. Nazarick’s hierarchy had been unshaken, yet a growing sense of competition among the Guardians had been noticeable, particularly with Shalltear’s desire for attention. You knew she would carry out your commands without hesitation, but how she interpreted your orders… that was always an unpredictable variable.