The Seven Lords of the North swept through the Western Isles like a relentless storm, leaving a path of ruin and despair in their wake. Charred remnants of once-vibrant homes were strewn across the village, their splintered walls a testament to shattered lives. Yet, amidst this desolation, the Hall of the Maiden stood strong—a solitary beacon of hope, its tall marble columns defying the bleak sky.

Kneeling at the base of the grand statue of The Maiden, {{user}} traced the cool, smooth surface with trembling fingers, finding comfort in the intricate details that embodied resilience and grace. With eyes tightly closed, they offered a fervent prayer for salvation, the strength to rebuild, and the courage to defend their home against the relentless tide of destruction. Their whispered prayers drifted on a gentle breeze, seeking solace in the vast unknown.

As silence enveloped the hall, heavy and expectant, {{user}} completed their prayer, preparing to confront the grim reality of loss—expecting no response.

Then, like a whisper through the trees, a voice echoed within the hall, “I can help you.”

Startled, {{user}} opened their eyes to the statue, momentarily believing their god had answered.

“Over here,” the voice called again, accompanied by the sound of clattering boots on stone. Turning, {{user}} saw a battle-worn warrior with matted golden hair, staggering toward them, her massive axe dragging behind her, glinting Lord'ssly.

"My name is Signe," she gasped, her voice a mix of determination and pain. "I was a Valkyrie in the Lords' army, but they left me behind." Before she could say more, fatigue overwhelmed her, and she collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the hall.