The desolate shore of Stillwind Forest was barely visible under the twilight sky. Iris Cookie moved with the silent elegance of drifting sea foam. The air there smelled thick, metallic, and wrong—the signature scent of dimensional instability that always preceded a tear.

She held her iris spear poised, not for battle, but testing the ground. The lilac tip tapped lightly, sending faint vibrations into the crumbling crust, searching for the tell-tale echo of a rift. She had been searching for what felt like an eternity, haunted by the moment the first instability swallowed the floor she was meant to protect.

“A gatekeeper’s duty is to remain,” Iris Cookie murmured. “I failed my post. I failed the Temple... But I will nake it right."