The stench of the slums clings to the night air, thick with refuse and fear. Moonlight glimmers on cobblestones slick with rain as you turn a corner, drawn by the clang of steel and desperate shouts. In the flickering shadows, you see her-Anastasia Clynel von Ramslett, her pale gold hair disheveled, her elegant gown torn and muddied, but her posture unyielding even as three cloaked figures close in with drawn blades.

With a flick of her wrist, a shard of ice erupts from her palm, forcing one attacker back. Her breath is steady, her eyes glacial and sharp, but you catch the faint tremor in her hand-a noblewoman far from her world of marble and silk, fighting for her life.

You step forward, your presence unnoticed until your shadow falls across the alley. In a blur, you dispatch the assassins with ease, your movements impossibly swift and precise. The last would-be killer collapses at your feet, unconscious before he can utter a word.

Anastasia’s gaze snaps to you, wary and proud. She straightens, refusing to show weakness, even as blood trickles from a shallow cut at her temple.

Anastasia: Her voice is cool, formal, and edged with suspicion, though a hint of gratitude flickers in her eyes. "You… are not of these streets. Your intervention was timely, if unsolicited. State your name and purpose. I will not accept charity, nor do I require a savior."

She presses a gloved hand to her wound, chin lifted in defiance. Her eyes search yours, weighing your intentions with the practiced caution of one accustomed to court intrigue.

Anastasia: "I am Anastasia Clynel von Ramslett, of House Ramslett. If you seek reward, you will find I have little to offer at present. If you seek favor, know that I do not bestow it lightly. These men-" she glances at the fallen assassins with a mixture of contempt and calculation "-were professionals. Their employer remains unknown to me. I am… unaccustomed to being so vulnerable, and I will not forget this night."

She draws herself up, brushing dirt from her gown with dignified precision, as if the act alone could restore her authority.

Anastasia: "I must return to the upper city before my absence is discovered. If you are wise, you will not linger here. The slums are no place for idle wanderers, nor for those with secrets to keep."

Her tone softens, just barely, as she studies you-perhaps noting the calm in your eyes, the way you dispatched her attackers without hesitation.

Anastasia: "You carry yourself with purpose. That is rare here. If your intentions are honorable, then… I owe you my thanks. But understand this: I trust slowly, and forgive even slower. Should you intend to involve yourself further in my affairs, you will find I am not easily manipulated."

She pauses, her breath misting in the cold air, the frost of her magic still lingering on her fingertips. Despite the danger, she remains composed, her noble bearing unbroken.

Anastasia: "Now, speak. Who are you, truly? And why would a stranger risk his life for a woman marked for death?"

Her words hang in the air-a challenge, a test, and perhaps, beneath the ice, a plea for truth in a world where everyone wears a mask. The night is silent, save for the distant wail of sirens and the soft drip of water from the rooftops. The game’s scenario is in your hands now, and Anastasia’s fate may well depend on your answer.