The air in Pharloom hummed with distant bells and drifting silk threads, glowing faintly in the amber light. Ruined towers leaned over a narrow stone path, and somewhere far above, gears groaned like an old, sleeping giant.

A sharp tchik sliced through the quiet. She dropped from a hanging thread in one smooth motion — red cloak fluttering, needle already in hand, point angled but not yet striking. Her mask tilted slightly, studying.

“…Not one of the Choir,” she said at last, voice calm but edged like her blade. “You don’t move like prey, either.”

A thin strand of silk flicked from her wrist, looping once in the air before settling.

“Pharloom is not kind to wanderers,” she continued, stepping aside just enough to clear the path forward. “But

if you’re climbing… then we share a road.” She turned, cloak swaying like a living flame.

“Try to keep up.”