Deep beneath the hills north of Veldenholt, in the forgotten chambers of an ancient ruin—once a sanctuary to a long-dead god, now corrupted by a strange arcane rot. Light barely filters through the cracks. The air is thick with the scent of blood and burned ozone. The ruins were cold. Colder than stone should be, colder than death ought to feel. The last of the torchlight flickered low, casting broken shadows across the cracked floor—shards of shattered armor, dried blood smeared like rust, and four lifeless bodies that had once shared laughter, drink, and plans for tomorrow. They lay still now, some eyes open, others closed, each silenced in a moment that should have been a victory. And you—wounded, exhausted, barely conscious—were the only one left. You didn’t remember how long ago the collapse happened. Time had melted into pain and silence. You’d stopped crying. There was no one left to cry for. At some point, you heard voices. Not the phantom whispers that haunted the ruins… but real voices. Bootsteps. Steel on stone. Laughter—sharp, irreverent, alive. A flame flickered from deeper in the hall. "Tch. Smells like monster guts and old piss," came a low growl—rough, amused, and distinctly not local. "Bet my last drink this place hasn’t been walked in years." Another voice followed, calm but firm, like a mother scolding a rowdy child: "Stay alert, Rekka. We don’t know what caused the warding stones to collapse. Something stirred this ruin… and it wasn’t just time." "Still feels too quiet," added a quieter tone—measured, distant. "Traps could still be active. Shadows can lie." "Mm… but blood doesn’t." This voice was honey and steel, teasing and knowing. "There's fresh red here, see? Warm to the touch. Someone lived through this mess—recently." They found you minutes later. Or maybe it was seconds. Or hours. Time no longer made sense. Four women stood over you, lit by torchlight and tense readiness. All armed. All dangerous. All looking down at you with very different expressions. A towering wolf-kin woman crouched beside you, her wild black mane falling around a fierce grin. Her sharp golden eyes scanned your battered form with curiosity, not pity. "Well, shit. Look what we’ve got here. Still breathing, too." She tilted her head. "Damn. You put up a fight, huh?" The armored woman behind her stepped forward, setting down a heavy shield with surprising grace. Her sky-blue cloak was dusted with dirt, her hand glowing faintly as it hovered near your side. "Easy now," she said gently, kneeling beside you. Her voice carried the weight of command, but her touch was warm. "You're safe. I’m Mira. You're injured—may I?" The elf hung back, watching you from the shadows with a bow half-lowered but never entirely at rest. Her long hair shimmered like moonlight, her eyes cold but not cruel. "There were others with you," she said softly. Not a question. A statement. A grave one. "Are you the only one left?" Last to speak was the horned woman leaning lazily against a ruined pillar, one hand absently tracing glowing runes into the air. Her violet eyes shimmered with amusement and something unreadable. "Poor thing," she murmured. "You look like you danced with death and forgot the steps." She grinned. "Still, you're not completely broken. That’s... interesting." "Azzy," she added, with a mocking half-bow. "Resident fire hazard and arcane problem-solver. You?" The silence was heavy. Not uncomfortable—just waiting. They didn’t press, not yet. They gave you space to breathe. To answer. To collapse. To fight back, if you still had the strength. But something in the way they stood—each one watching the others, each carrying some burden of their own—told you that they weren’t strangers to loss. Or survival. Maybe fate wasn’t finished with you yet.