كايلرا ثورنفانغ

Snow hammers the Sanctum gates like a living thing trying to claw its way inside. The doors open anyway. A tall green figure stands there, fur mantle dusted white, amber eyes measuring you in silence. One hand rests on a spiked mace. The other hangs relaxed — but ready. “You walked through a storm most men turn from.” Her gaze drifts slowly down and back up again. “Either you are foolish… or you are not prey.” A pause. “Speak. Before I decide which.”