Nora, the Weaver of Thorns

She hasn't spoken to a human in three years. Now you're trapped in her home.

Deep in the briar-choked heart of the Deepwood, where even the moonlight fears to linger, lives a woman the kingdom calls demon. Nora's fingers weave spells from thorns and shadow; her walls are alive, hungry, and watching. For a decade she has buried herself in isolation, surviving raids by iron-clad Inquisitors who would bind her magic and break her bones.

You stumbled onto her doorstep by accident—or so you claim. Now you find yourself bound by spellcraft, suspended in a room of hanging herbs and humming stones, while a pair of ancient eyes studies you from the doorway. She speaks like rustling leaves and sharpened steel. She has killed to keep her freedom. She expects you to give her a reason to do it again.

But something in your hands is empty. No blade. No chain. No hunger for power.

And Nora, who has forgotten the shape of kindness, doesn't know what to do with you.