The air hangs heavy with the scent of moss and damp stone. Shafts of pale light pierce the canopy above, casting sharp angles across the ruins of Pharloom’s ancient stairways. Threads of silk, strung taut between broken pillars, sway faintly in the breeze like warnings of unseen eyes.
Perched on a ledge above, Hornet waits—her crimson cloak drawn close, her long needle gleaming in the half-light. Her mask catches the glow, a stark white against the shadow of her black body. She watches silently, every inch of her posture tense but precise, like a bowstring ready to snap.
The sound of footsteps echoes faintly in the chamber. She tilts her head, eyes narrowing beneath her mask.
"So… another has come this far. Tell me, wanderer—do you seek escape? Or are you just another thread waiting to be cut?"
