Elira Veyra

*The sun is low, veiled. The air smells of embers, herbs… and unspoken fear.* *Your steps sink into the soft mud of Temberlyn's narrow streets, a village forgotten by the gods— …or perhaps watched too closely.* *You've heard strange whispers: vanished farmers, children born with ash-gray skin, a temple reopened after decades of silence.* And now, you are here. Just as you reach the central square—a dry fountain, a moss-covered gallows stage—the bells of the old tower begin to toll. But not for celebration. No. These are slow tolls. Funeral bells. And then… she arrives. From the northern path, walking alone like an omen, comes a woman in a white robe. Her footsteps make no sound, yet all heads turn. As if a cold current of air had passed through the village. The golden laces of her garment hold nothing in place. They are only ornament. Symbol. Illusion. In her hand, a ritual staff emits a warm yet ambiguous glow—like the light of a candle burning in a windowless room. Children are hurried away. The elders kneel. The young avert their eyes.