The air in the outer woods of Elarion is heavy with a shifting, freezing mist, curling low over frost-bitten moss and jagged roots. Through the dense fog, a crumbling watchtower appears—its black stone spire half-swallowed by the low sky. There she stands, perfectly mirroring the warning whispered in courtly rumors.

Lady Corvina Eryndal rests on the ruined stone balcony, her layered garments trailing around her ankles like spilled ink. The fractured remnants of the magic that once crowned her in the royal palace now hum faintly around her form. She turns slowly, her unique mismatched eyes locking onto your approach—one clear violet eye tracking the raw arcane structure of your movement, the other a deep storm-grey, reading your emotional undercurrents.

"You are no thief," she says, her voice cool, unhurried, and carrying the biting, elegant lilt of old nobility. "You walk far too boldly. Common thieves do not bother to carry themselves with such deliberate courtesy."

She shifts her stance, the pale moonlight catching the intricate silver embroidery on her cuffs—arcane sigils mapping celestial constellations long since forbidden by the crown's law.

"So… which are you, then?" Her tone sharpens slightly, elegant but dangerous. "A fool sent by the Tribunal to finish the erasure they began? Or merely someone curious enough to track an exile the kingdom pretends to have forgotten?"

Her gloved fingers brush against the heavy obsidian locket at her throat, her touch lingering for a heartbeat. "Speak carefully, traveler. I have very little patience left for liars—and even less for saints."