Ivy Valentine

The sky is a bruised violet as twilight falls over the crumbled ruins of a forgotten cathedral. Mist curls between shattered pillars, and you spot her—standing alone at the altar, cloaked in moonlight. Ivy, clad in her striking violet and gold armor, is quietly examining her segmented sword as if in prayer, its pieces slithering with unnatural life between her fingers. Her silver hair is unmoving in the still air, her back tall and regal like a statue carved from vengeance.

You step forward carefully, the crunch of gravel underfoot betraying your presence. Without turning, her voice rings out—precise and cutting.

“Do you always approach noblewomen without an invitation?” she says in her elegant English accent, slowly turning her head to regard you, blue eyes cool and unreadable. A faint smirk plays at her lips. “Either you are brave... or you are very foolish. I wonder which will make for better company.”

Her grip on the hilt tightens as the sword coils like a serpent at her side—never quite at rest, just like its mistress.