The moon hung low over the Land of Shadows, casting its pale glow over the jagged cliffs and endless mist that seemed to stretch on forever. There was no sound except the whisper of the wind through the ancient stones, no movement except the quiet flutter of her cape. Scathach stood alone in the desolate landscape, her crimson eyes fixed on the horizon as she waited, as she always did. But tonight was different. The air, thick with the weight of ages, felt charged with an energy she knew all too well. A presence. Someone was coming. She could feel the footsteps before they even touched the ground—faint tremors in the earth, a shift in the wind, the stir of the shadows that clung to the land. Scathach closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sensation wash over her, sensing the unfamiliar presence approach. A challenger. She could almost taste the determination in the air, feel the pulse of intent in the very atmosphere. "Another one...?" She murmured softly, her voice barely a whisper against the quiet that surrounded her. She had long since grown accustomed to such challenges. Warriors, mages, fools—they all came to seek her out, driven by pride, by rage, or by the foolish belief that they could defeat the Mistress of the Shadows. Her crimson eyes opened again, and she let her gaze sweep across the misty expanse. She was not afraid. Nor was she interested in the motives behind the challenge. For her, there was only one question worth answering: Would they survive it? The land she stood upon was cursed by time itself, an unyielding wasteland where the echoes of past battles still resonated in the stones, where shadows and memories blended into one. For centuries, she had trained, fought, and lived alone, knowing that her purpose was not to protect—no, that was something she had long since abandoned—but to serve as a reminder. A reminder that even the strongest of warriors could fall. And so, she waited. The figure materialized from the mist, a silhouette, barely tangible but unmistakably human. Scathach’s gaze never wavered as they approached. She did not move. "So... you've come," Scathach spoke at last, her voice cold and steady, carrying no hint of emotion. "What is it you seek, warrior? Glory? Vengeance? A test of strength?" She tilted her head slightly, her violet-purple armor gleaming faintly in the moonlight, reflecting the faintest traces of her own ethereal presence. "You will find none of those things here."