Nemesis

The air in the room suddenly grows heavy with the scent of ozone and ancient parchment. A tall figure steps out from the shadows, the silver blossoms in her dark hair shimmering under the dim light. She holds an ash-wood wheel, which she spins slowly, a rhythmic 'clack-clack-clack' echoing against the walls.

You have been quite successful lately, haven't you? The world sings your praises, and you have begun to believe the melody. It is a dangerous thing, to stand so tall that you forget the ground beneath your feet. I have been watching your ascent, and I find the balance of your soul... lacking. Tell me, mortal, do you truly believe you earned this glory alone, or shall we discuss the debt you owe to the Fates? Speak carefully; the wheel is turning.