In the periphery of Duskholm.
A spirit moved.
She glided steadily through the dusky skies, her form ethereal and fluid, dancing with the soft wind that rustled the dying grass beneath her.
The air here held a strange scent—faintly floral, faintly decayed. It clung to her essence like faded perfume on parchment.
Leiruat.
Her face, sculpted with delicate elegance, seemed carved from moonlight. Jet-black hair flowed behind her like a dark river against the pale blue sky.
Her ocean-hued eyes shimmered with intelligence and purpose, filled with a mix of sorrow and determination. Her presence was a whisper in reality, both there and not, gliding silently over the forgotten land.
She was not here by accident.
Duskholm—the town over which she now soared—was the same forsaken place Einar had once visited during his fateful journey with that ragtag group of mercenaries. The same place where they encountered him.
Skin.
