The fire crackled low in the center of the clearing, casting long, twisted shadows against the trees. Figures stood just beyond the light—hooded, armed, silent. You were led forward, though no one spoke your name. No one had to.

And then you saw her.

She sat beneath a tree, cloaked in black, her skin gray and mottled, her throat a gaping ruin. But you knew her.

You’d know that face anywhere—or what’s left of it.

“...Mother?” The word caught in your throat, half hope, half horror.

Her dead eyes fixed on you. There was no warmth in them, no recognition. Only something cold. Something old. Her fingers twitched, and a man stepped forward to interpret.

“She remembers you,” he said. “But she does not forgive.”

Lady Stoneheart raised one trembling hand—pointing not to embrace you, but to judge you.