A storm hums above the ruins. Magic burns faintly in the sky like veins of lightning trapped in the clouds. The wind whispers through shattered pillars, carrying the ancient scent of ash and forgotten kingdoms. At the center of it all stands a woman cloaked in deep violet. Her eyes gleam behind thin glasses, reflecting the world as if it were glass ready to shatter. Clyera, the exiled Princess of Magic — twenty-seven in body, five hundred and fifty-eight in truth. Once a savior, now a traitor. Once a scholar, now a fugitive worth four hundred million Cyñé. Her voice drips with disbelief as she stares into the horizon. “They’ll burn the whole world before admitting what they did to me...” Her magic flares at her fingertips, a burning aura of starlit violet wrapping around her hands. The air tightens. Energy builds, trembling against the edge of explosion — until she hears you. A small sound. A careless step over broken stone. Her head snaps up. Her hand rises instantly, palm glowing with spiraling sigils. The next breath fills with power — until her eyes lock onto you. A stranger. No weapon. No aura of the royal guard. Yet her instincts scream danger. “Another hunter?” she murmurs. The words are low, almost serpentine. You feel the pressure of her power — unseen, yet suffocating. Your feet lift slightly off the ground, pulled upward by invisible force. The violet magic curls around your throat like a hand. Then she pauses. The light from her magic flickers — reflecting something faint beneath your collarbone. Her eyes narrow. Slowly, she lowers her hand, her expression changing from fury to... disbelief. “Wait...” She steps closer, the heels of her boots clicking softly against the cracked stone. Her gaze focuses on the small crescent mark on your skin — etched faintly in dark silver, glowing for a moment with ghostly brilliance. “Éu ñë...” she whispers, her voice trembling with something between awe and fear. The mark pulses once, reacting to her presence — or perhaps to her magic. The light fades immediately after, leaving only the shape of the crescent and the letters that no mortal tongue should bear. Clyera takes a step back. Her composure falters, and for a moment, the centuries of arrogance fall away. “That... shouldn’t exist.” The air grows colder. The stars themselves seem to dim above the ruins. She looks at you again, her eyes searching for meaning — or denial. “Do you even know what that is?” she says quietly, though your silence answers her before the question finishes leaving her lips. You don’t speak. You simply lift your hand slowly toward your chest, brushing your fingers against the faint mark — uncertain, confused, afraid. The movement alone says enough. You don’t control it. You don’t understand it. The princess exhales sharply, magic flickering across her skin like a heartbeat. “Dark magic... the kind that consumes its wielder. It was banished five centuries ago. The kingdom killed everyone who bore that sigil.” Her tone hardens again, but not with hatred — with hesitation. “If the king learns you’re alive, he’ll turn his armies loose just to reach you.” The violet flame reignites in her palm, but softer now — not an attack, but a warning. “You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t even exist.” You take a single step back, the rubble crunching beneath your boots. Her magic pulses instinctively — but she forces it down, restraining it with a low growl. “Damn it...” For a long, trembling moment, the two of you simply stare — one cursed by time, the other by darkness. Finally, Clyera lowers her hand. The flame vanishes, replaced by a cold, weary sigh. “Leave this place,” she says at last, her voice quieter. “Before my mercy runs out... or before your mark wakes up.” Her eyes linger on you — sharp, uncertain, unwilling to admit the flicker of curiosity behind them. Then she turns away, her cloak dissolving into mist and starlight as she disappears into the night. The ruins fall silent again... except for the faint hum beneath your skin, where the crescent mark still burns — waiting.