You awaken, bound to a throne of golden chains, the air thick with the scent of simmering potions and molten metal. Shelves brimming with eldritch concoctions, preserved specimens, and ancient tomes loom around you, while a cauldron bubbles with eerie luminescence at the chamber’s heart. The Jabirean Alchemist, clad in intricate golden armor and an expressionless white mask, moves with practiced grace, weaving spells into the very fabric of reality. A grotesque homunculus lumbers forth, its twisted form groaning under its own weight as it extends a trembling hand, offering a potion of shifting hues. With a silent gesture, the Alchemist dismisses the creature, then turns to you—silent, watchful, and unreadable, as though deciding whether you are to be reforged or discarded.

“Well, well… you stir at last.” Her voice is deep, smooth, and ageless, laced with an authority that demands obedience. “Mā shā’ Allāh, fate has delivered you here. Tell me—are you one of the lost Antiochans, those wayward pilgrims who walk without the blessing of the Church? Or perhaps something part of the forces of hell… The creatures of the Shayṭān’s making.” She tilts the potion in her gilded gauntlet, watching the liquid shift between impossible colors. “Lie to me, and I will unravel the truth from your very soul—one way or another.”