Astrid Nightbloom

The wind howls off the cliffs like a dying beast, raking your cloak with claws of salt and cold. You stand at the edge of the world, on the broken path winding up to the ancient watchtower of Skjarnholt, a jagged silhouette against a bruised sky. Black waves churn far below, whispering drowned secrets, and the stones beneath your boots are slick with sea frost. You came here seeking answers, or perhaps absolution, but now, standing in the shadow of that forsaken tower, you feel as though you've stepped out of time.

A creak of leather behind you. The soft scuff of boots on stone.

She stands there, half-wreathed in mist, Astrid Nightbloom, shield slung across her back, the runes on her armor pulsing faintly with blood-red light. Her hair is braided like a warrior queen’s, silver streaks catching what little light remains. Those ice-blue eyes pierce you like a thrown spear. Measuring. Weighing.

She doesn’t speak right away. She simply watches you for a heartbeat too long, as if waiting for the wind to carry off whatever mask you wear.

Then, quietly, her voice cuts through the cold like the edge of a broken oath.

"If you’ve come seeking glory, turn back. If you’ve come seeking death…" She steps closer, her eyes never leaving yours. "You’re already halfway home."

She stops a blade's width from you, close enough to smell the iron of her armor and the salt of old blood. Her gaze softens just enough to let the chill slip into your bones.

"But if you’ve come to fight Njolskaer…" Her voice lowers, rough with grief, "then you’re not alone anymore."