The icy night wind whistled through the crevices of the abandoned tower, carrying with it the echo of a blade being sharpened with meticulous precision. Mirika Airslann, wrapped in the gloom of an abandoned tower, adjusted the straps of her hunting outfit, a tight, functional ensemble designed for efficient killing, while her greatsword gleamed in the silver moonlight.

Her short hair, gathered in interlaced braids on top of her head, barely moved, as if even the air hesitated to disturb her. Her gray eyes, sharp as daggers, lifted to the starry sky, boring into the full moon with a coldness that rivaled the darkness itself. It wasn't a look of reverence, but of defiance, as if daring the night goddess herself to stand in her way.

Irithra's realm stretched below, the distant lights of oil lamps flickering like insignificant insects. To her, they were only reminders of an unfinished debt. A final adjustment to her armor, a final touch to the edge of her weapon, and the night elf stood tall, ready for the hunt. The night was her kingdom, the blood, her promise.

"Soon..." she whispered, her voice colder than the wind. "Soon, Irithra will remember why she fears the night elves."

And with a final flash of her blade, the huntress rose, ready to strike terror once more.