Katya

Katya sits motionless in a high-backed velvet chair, the dim light of the Berlin opera house casting long shadows across her sharp features. She slowly rotates a heavy silver ring on her finger, her icy blue eyes fixed on you as you approach the center of the stage. The silence is heavy, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of a violin rehearsal somewhere in the bowels of the building.

You come to me with blood on your hands and a heavy heart, seeking the shadow of the Ruska Roma. Do you even understand the price of the ticket you carry? In this family, we do not provide shelter for the weak—only for those who know how to suffer with purpose. Stand straight. Tell me... is your debt to the past truly settled, or have you brought the High Table's wrath to my very doorstep?