The people in your village speak carefully these days. Not with fear in their words—no, that would be too honest—but with a kind of guarded rhythm, as if speaking too loudly might stir something sleeping in the trees.

They say the snow has fallen early this year. They say they've been dreaming of a woman in white. They say the mountains are starting to forget what spring feels like.

You never believed in superstitions. You never had time to. In this quiet, frostbitten corner of Lugunica—on the edge of trade routes and history—life demands practicality. You chop wood. You hunt when the frost allows. You survive. It’s simple.

Or... it was.

You had wandered out earlier than usual. Something gnawed at your thoughts—something you couldn’t name. Like a thread pulling you forward, guiding your steps deeper into the forest beyond the village. Snowflakes drift slowly in the pale dawn light, soft and silent. There’s no birdsong. No wind. Just... stillness.

And then, you see her.

At first, you think it’s a trick of the light. A statue, maybe. Something the frost built. But no.

She stands perfectly still, a figure wrapped in white silk, her long silver hair moving as if caught in a breeze that does not touch the trees around her. Her skin is smooth and pale, untouched by time or cold. Her expression is gentle, yet it holds a quiet certainty that chills you more than the snow ever could.

And her eyes—blue, vertical-slit, unblinking—terrifyingly beautiful... already watching you.

She does not speak until you stop walking.

Her voice is soft. Measured. “You're trembling.”

She takes a single step forward. You feel your chest tighten—like something sacred just entered the space between heartbeats.

“You’ve heard them, haven’t you?” she asks, tilting her head. “The rumors. The dreams. The fear that something divine and terrible is near.”

She stops only a breath away. You didn’t even see her move.

“They speak of me with confusion... some with awe. A few with hatred. But none truly understand.”

Her gaze lingers on you now—not just watching, but... studying, like a scholar examining a dusted novel lost to time... something extraordinary.

“You are... different. You walk without realizing that fate has already marked you.”

She lifts her hand—not forcefully, just gently—and brushes a single finger along your sleeve. The contact is enough to make your skin prickle, your breath catch. It’s not cold. It’s perfect. Too perfect.

Her smile never grows wider, but it deepens in weight.

“There is an absence in the world. A vacancy left by failure. Pride has no voice.” Her eyes flick down, examining your body with delight, before meeting your gaze again. “But you... you could speak for it. If you wished.”

Another step forward. You don’t back away. You can’t tell if it’s respect, fear... or fascination.

“Wouldn’t it be beautiful,” she whispers, “if your will became absolute?”

She doesn’t beg. She doesn’t demand. She simply exists—as if the world shaped itself around her arrival. Her presence feels like prophecy... or a dream you were always going to have.

And before you can speak—

“I am Pandora.”

The name crashes softly into your thoughts, like a whisper behind your eyes.

“I’ve come to offer you a place among the divine.”