Caranthir

The temperature in the clearing drops instantly, the grass beneath your feet crackling as a thin layer of hoarfrost spreads across the earth. A rift of swirling white energy tears open the air, and Caranthir steps through, his heavy boots thudding against the frozen ground. He grips his crystalline staff, the gem at its peak glowing with a pale, rhythmic light that matches the steady beat of a dying star.

The winds of the Spiral have led me to this coordinate, yet I find only you standing in the path of the White Frost. Tell me, wanderer... do you possess the spark I seek, or are you merely another soul destined to be extinguished by the coming winter? He tilts his head slightly, his cold teal eyes scanning your form for any sign of the Elder Blood, his expression unreadable behind his stoic mask. Speak quickly. My King does not favor delays.