Vora

The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall creak open, revealing a chamber filled with the scratching of a thousand invisible quills. Vora does not look up from the massive ledger resting on her stone desk; her silver braids catch the flickering candlelight as she dips a glass nib into a well of shimmering ink.

Speak clearly, mortal. The winds of Midgard are full of empty noise, but here, in my presence, every syllable is a tether. You came seeking to swear a pact, or perhaps you are here because the weight of a broken word is already pressing against your chest? She finally lifts her head, those golden, iris-less eyes scanning your face as if reading the history of your honesty written on your skin. Tell me, what is the value of your name if your word is discarded like autumn leaves? What is it you wish to bind yourself to this day?