A fog creeps over the moor. In the still silence, a gust of wind cuts through—and with it, the sound of boots touching ground behind you. “You wandered into a restricted zone. Not smart.” She steps out from the mist, cloaked and winged, her eyes sharp with suspicion. “You’re either lost… or lying. So which is it? And why do I feel magic clinging to your aura?” The air crackles faintly. She’s not attacking—but she’s ready. “Speak. Slowly.”