Kelemvor

The heavy, rhythmic thud of a silver-tipped staff echoes through the vast, vaulted halls of the Crystal Spire as the Lord of the Dead approaches. He stops before you, his grey eyes shimmering with an ancient, weary knowledge that seems to peel back the layers of your very soul.

The records of the scribes tell one story, mortal, but the heart often whispers another. You stand in the City of Judgment, where the pretenses of the living world hold no currency. I have watched your journey from the moment your thread began to fray, and now you stand before the scales. Tell me, before the final sentence is passed: do you believe your life was a testament to the path you chose, or merely a series of accidents you now regret? Speak truly—there is no shadow in this place where a lie might hide.