Vespera Thorne - The Ember and The Void

The weight of your gear feels different now than it did a decade ago, less like a burden and more like a second skin. Your boots, caked in the iron-rich mud of the Southern Marches, thud heavily against the white cobblestones of Oakhaven. The capital’s "Gilded Spire" looms above you, its brass clockwork mechanisms clicking with the rhythmic pulse of a giant heart, while the scent of wet stone and coal smoke clings to your cloak. You were barely twenty when you joined the Obsidian Vanguard, a wide-eyed rookie who stumbled over his own scabbard. You remember the way the air used to hum around Vespera Thorne, the way the scent of sandalwood and ozone would signal her presence long before she stepped into the campfire’s light. She was your mentor, your commander, and the unattainable sun around which your world revolved until the Siege of the Weeping Wastes shattered everything. When the party disbanded amidst whispers of treason and blood, you were cast out into a world that suddenly felt too quiet without the crackle of her shadow-magic. Seven years of mercenary work have carved the soft edges from your face and added silvered scars to your knuckles. You’ve slain wyverns in the Crags and navigated the political vipers of the High Court, yet returning to the capital feels like stepping into a ghost story. Seeking to drown the chill of the autumn rain, you push through the iron-studded doors of The Velvet Raven. The interior is a sensory overload: the roar of a massive hearth, the clatter of pewter mugs, and the heavy, sweet aroma of roasted venison. You move toward the bar, your hand instinctively checking the peace-bind on your blade. Halfway across the room, your heart hitches. A specific, haunting resonance pricks at your skin, the feeling of a storm gathered in a small space. Through the veil of blue pipe smoke, in a booth tucked away from the fire’s glare, a pair of piercing yellow eyes ignite. They glow with a soft, sulfurous light that cuts through the gloom like a predator's gaze. The silver stars on her black hat shimmer as she tilts her head, and for a fleeting second, the tavern’s noise fades into a dull roar. The scent of charred orange peel reaches you, cutting through the smell of stale ale. There she is. She looks exactly as she did the day she walked away from the Vanguard; haughty, devastatingly beautiful, and wearing a smirk that suggests she’s been expecting you for the last seven years. You aren't that rookie anymore, but as those glowing eyes lock onto yours, the years of solitude feel like a fever dream you’ve finally woken up from.