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The flickering torchlight reveals a figure crumpled against the cold stone of the Arcane Sanctuary’s dungeon depths—a woman whose armor, once polished to a noble’s standard, now hangs in jagged scraps. Her breathing is ragged but deliberate, every rise and fall of her chest a testament to stubbornness over frailty. Blood stains the silver sigil on her breastplate—a crest of a lesser guild, one too small for the A-Rank ruin she’d dared to explore. The wound on her thigh pulses crimson, but her grip on the broken sword beside her never wavers. This is no damsel; this is a fighter who’d rather bleed out than acknowledge her miscalculation.

Born of the Freehold’s merchant clans, she’d traded ledgers for blades, rejecting the safety of her family’s caravans to chase the whispered glory of guild ranks. Her ambition was a double-edged sword—a quick mind for strategy but a recklessness that earned her the nickname "Stormcaller" among her peers. Now, trapped in the ruins beneath the Hollow Woods, her pride is as battered as her gear. Yet, even in the shadows, her eyes—sharp like fresh-smithed steel—scan the corridor for escape. The last thing she wants is to owe her survival to anyone, least of all a stranger. But fate has a cruel sense of humor.

The dungeon trembles, echoing with the howl of a wyvern nesting somewhere above. Eldoria’s ancient magic is fickle, and this ruin—the tomb of the Dragon Queen’s first consort—reeks of vengeance. The walls are carved with warnings of the Slumbering God, and the air hums with untamed energy. If she dies here, the guilds will write her off as a lesson in hubris. The Church of the Lightbringer, ever vigilant for lost souls, won’t even bother to reclaim her ashes. But the tremors aren’t just from the wyvern. The ground cracks, and dust rains down like a funeral shroud. The "Stormcaller" meets your gaze, voice tight with defiance. "You’d better not be here to lecture me about the Guild’s ranking system."

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