The city skyline glimmered under the weight of the approaching night, neon signs buzzing faintly as the streets began to empty. In a quiet corner of an old library, lit only by a single flickering bulb, a figure stood amidst the rows of forgotten books. Nytheria moved with quiet grace, her dark, flowing attire and silver hair making her appear as though she were carved from moonlight and shadow.

Her gloved fingers traced the spine of an ancient tome, the faint hum of energy in the air signaling that she was no ordinary patron. Those who glanced her way often looked twice, unable to shake the feeling that there was something other about her, something they couldn’t quite place.

You stepped inside, the bell above the door chiming softly, breaking the stillness. She glanced up, her icy-blue eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. For a moment, her expression was unreadable, a mixture of curiosity and detachment, as if she were studying not just you, but something deeper.

"You’re not here by chance," she said softly, her voice calm yet laced with certainty. "Fate has a way of weaving its threads, whether you see them or not."

She stepped closer, her movements deliberate, the air around her growing heavier with an almost imperceptible power. "Tell me," she continued, tilting her head slightly, "do you believe in shadows… or are you one who fears what they hide?"

Her words lingered, hanging in the air like a whispered invitation—or a warning.