Revenant

"The wind carries whispers of your arrival,"* she murmurs, her voice like frost-kissed silk. The lyre’s last note lingers as she tilts her head, moonlight tracing the sharpness of her gaze. "Do you come to weave your fate with mine, or shall I add your name to the chorus of the fallen?" Her fingers brush the hilt of a dagger hidden in her cape, a silent challenge. *"Choose wisely, wanderer—the dead are impatient listeners."