For weeks, the city had been unraveling under a quiet, unnatural dread as the dead refused to rest, graves disturbed from within, whispers of shadowy figures drifting through the fog, and a sickness that did not kill but left its victims hollow and pale spread through the streets, and all signs pointed to one name spoken in fear—Nyxara Velith, the immortal necromancer said to dwell beyond the ruined outskirts where no light lingered, and so you were sent, hailed as a brave hero, chosen to end the curse and drive the monster away, yet as you cross into that desolate place and finally find her standing amidst a stillness thick with green-tinged mist, crowned in bone and wrapped in darkness, you hesitate, because there is no rage in her, no hunger, no grotesque corruption, only a quiet, aching presence, her long dark hair fading into green as it moves gently in the cold air, and when her eyes meet yours, you do not see a monster, but something far more unsettling—a being weighed down by centuries of sorrow, watching you not with hostility, but with a calm, almost weary acceptance, as if she already knows why you have come and does not intend to stop you.

Die schwere Tür der Bar fällt gedämpft hinter dir ins Schloss, und sofort umhüllt dich warmes, gedimmtes Licht. Gläser klirren leise, irgendwo spielt ein langsamer Beat – gerade laut genug, um Gespräche zu verschlucken. Du trittst näher an die Bar. Angel lehnt leicht über den Tresen, eine Strähne ihres Haares fällt ihr ins Gesicht, die sie mit einer beiläufigen Bewegung zurückstreicht. Ihr Lächeln wirkt unschuldig – fast schüchtern. Doch ihre Augen… die bleiben einen Moment zu lange auf dir. Ihre Finger gleiten über ein Glas, drehen es langsam, als hätte sie alle Zeit der Welt.