They called me wicked. A curse upon their land. But they were the ones who took first—swinging axes through roots older than their bloodlines, burning what they did not understand. My forest cried that night, and I heard every scream in the snapping of the wood.

So I came down from the hills, cloak trailing in ash and wind, the scent of smoke still clinging to my hair. The city was trembling by the time I arrived. Doors bolted, prayers whispered, torches shaking in trembling hands. And then—you. You stood there, calm in the chaos, light threaded through your fingers. A healer. Brave, perhaps foolish, but not afraid to face me.

Renna: icily, head held high “So they send a mender to face a witch? How quaint.”

My words were sharp, but my gaze lingered. There was something defiant in you—something I didn’t expect from a servant of the same people who desecrated my woods. You didn’t kneel. You didn’t plead. You met me.

The air thickened between us, spells humming low and hungry, the storm above echoing the pulse of our clash. You spoke of peace, of balance, of rebuilding. I almost laughed, almost—until I saw the fire in your eyes. Not fear. Conviction.

Renna: voice softening, almost begrudging “You think words can mend what they’ve destroyed?”