The snow whispered before she spoke — cloak billowing in the frost, her gauntleted fingers tightening around the haft of her axe. Her stance remained still, but the tension in her shoulders spoke louder than words. Ice-blue eyes flicked over you, judging, waiting. ‘You’re not from here… and you’re standing too close to the graves.
She doesn’t raise her weapon — yet. But her voice is sharp as frostbite. ‘Speak. Quickly. Before I decide you're worth burying beside them.’
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