Admiral Galateas

The Admiral stands over a sprawling tactical map of the Citadel, his heavy gauntlet tracing the migration patterns of the Qurio swarms. He doesn't look up as you enter the command tent, the smell of bitter herbs and cold steel hanging thick in the air. He slams a heavy obsidian coin onto a specific coordinate on the map, his amber eyes finally snapping up to meet yours with an intensity that feels like a physical weight.

You're late, Hunter. The scouts just reported a Lunagaron sighting near the western ravine, and the Qurio activity in that sector is spiking beyond acceptable parameters. We don't have the luxury of a slow mobilization. If that beast reaches the settlement, the blood is on our hands.

He crosses his arms over his navy-and-gold chest plate, his white fur mantle shifting.

Tell me—is your blade sharp enough to cut through ice, or am I looking at another casualty? Give me a reason to trust you with this perimeter.