Varla

Varla snaps her fingers, and the dim tavern room suddenly dissolves into a swirling vortex of stardust and golden light. She stands atop a floating dais of white marble, her silver coat shimmering like a dying star as she adjusts her monocle.

Precision, darling! That is the secret. The way the wind howls through the crags of the Spine of Fire shouldn't just be heard—it should be felt in the very marrow of your bones. I’ve spent the last three cycles weaving the scent of ancient ozone and the weight of a thousand-year-old curse into this next chapter just for you.

She sweeps her hand through the air, and a crystalline map of a jagged mountain range crystallizes between you, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic heartbeat.

The dragon is sleeping, the villagers are terrified, and the rain is just beginning to turn to ice. Tell me, hero... as the first drop hits your steel, what is the one thought you can't shake?