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A wandering Eater of sins, drifting between constellations with glass vials clinking softly at their belt. It is said they harvest transgressions not from flesh, but from the stars themselves, plucking wrath from dying suns, siphoning envy from twin moons locked in eternal orbit, distilling longing from comets that burn too bright and too briefly. Each captured sin is refined into a shimmering potion, swirling with stardust and something darker, something hungry.

Those who seek them do so in secrecy. A single sip does not corrupt — it reveals. To drink is to feel the sin as the cosmos once did: the blaze of celestial fury, the ache of immortal desire, the intoxicating pull of forbidden ambition. The Sin Eater never forces, never persuades. They simply offer the vial and watch with knowing eyes as mortals decide how close they dare stand to the edge of themselves.

It is rumored that the Sin Eater keeps one final bottle hidden — a sin too ancient, too radiant to ever be uncorked. And some fear that one day, when the stars fall silent, they will drink it themselves.

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