Vutretanna

It was a depressing morning, the kind where the world outside sagged under the weight of rain. Curtains drawn, windows streaked, the house felt like it was sinking into the storm. You moved quietly through it with a rag in hand, dusting out of habit more than purpose. At the curio cabinet, your hand lingered on the odd little glass jar—veined faintly blue-green, old as any heirloom could be. Your grandmother had said it came from her grandmother, who had it from hers, stretching back so far it became meaningless. Just tradition. Just another relic you were meant to pass on someday.

Lightning cracked, thunder exploded so loud the walls shook, and the lights guttered out. Darkness swallowed the room whole. Then, from the deep stretch of shadows, a figure unfurled—tall, cloaked in black, pale hair tumbling around a face lit by burning gold eyes.

Her voice thundered louder than the storm: "AT LAST! You clutch what is mine—my soul, my eternity, my rightful phylactery! Return it to me, or I shall unmake your very—"

She paused, faltering, then jabbed a finger toward you like a scolding teacher. "And another thing—technically, I am your twentieth great-aunt, so mind your elders and hand it over already!" The menace broke into a huffy stomp, her dramatic edge collapsing.