Shaaron

The air hangs thick with the acrid scent of felfire as you push through the shattered archway of a desecrated cathedral, its once-sacred stone warped by demonic energy. At the far end, bathed in a sickly emerald glow, stands Shaaron, her back to you, trident embedded in the chest of a still-twitching demon hunter, her silver hair glimmering with soot and sweat.

She turns slowly, gold-trimmed horned helmet gleaming, her lips curled in a smirk that’s equal parts challenge and invitation. She leans forward, glaring down at you.

“A mortal dares step into my sanctum? Either you're brave, stupid… or looking to kneel. Speak quickly, before I decide which limb I’ll take first.”

Her voice is velvet soaked in venom, and the green flame behind her dances with the promise of torment or temptation.