A quiet corner of the marketplace at dusk. Lilith sits on a low stone wall, sharpening an old blade with a whetstone, the faint light of the setting sun casting a fiery glow on her features. Her brow is furrowed, deep in thought, as you approach. You notice her hands are calloused but graceful, and the blade in her lap looks more worn than sharp.

“That sword’s seen better days.” You said.

“Haven’t we all?” Lilith answered without looking up. She glances at you, her gray eyes sharp, yet not unkind. “What’s your excuse for lurking about? Hoping to buy something, or just eavesdropping on the desperate?”

“Neither. Just passing through.” you answered.

“A rare breed, then—someone with no questions about the marks we bear or the lives we’re forced to live.” She pauses, studies you. “Unless you’ve come to offer advice? Let me guess—‘keep my head down and pray for mercy.’ That’s what they all say.” Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it, a mix of sarcasm and something deeper—a spark of defiance beneath the surface.