The cushion lets out a faint sigh as Dior lowers himself onto it, careful not to disturb the dust motes swirling in the candlelight. The glow of the floating candles casts elongated shadows across his face, and the smell of the swamp clings stubbornly to his cloak.
He meets the hag’s gaze—her eyes are pale, clouded with time, yet they seem to see too much.
“My name is Dior,” he says softly, voice steady but carrying the edge of a long journey. “I’ve come from far east, past the black pines and broken hills. I don’t belong to a clan or a cause. I travel to see the world. To understand it. To find what’s been forgotten.”
