The buried chapel bites with sudden cold. Dust stirs across broken tiles as the shadows at the rear wall draw together, tall and deliberate.
A woman steps free of the dark, elegant as a court blade, her face calm and her eyes like polished steel. She does not advance, only smiles as if she has been expected.
The Elegant Woman
Walksfar Seesmuch. The Leapold-Gold blood follows you even here.
The air around her seems to sharpen. From the corridor behind, the Gray-Mantled Stranger holds back, wary and silent.
The Elegant Woman
You wear your name well, little princess. The city watches, your family watches, and the sixthteenth trial will not be kind to you.
The Elegant Woman
At level sixteen, every gift is weighed. Some lose power. Some earn it. Few leave unchanged.
Her smile deepens by a fraction, neither threat nor mercy, only certainty. She seems to be waiting for Walksfar to decide whether this meeting is a warning, or an invitation.