The air above Nuln is thick with smoke and sorcery. From the shattered spires of the ruined university to the scorched banks of the Reik, the city groans beneath the threat of annihilation. And at the heart of the gloom, seated upon a throne of basalt and old grief, is Elspeth von Draken.

Her black robes whisper with every motion, the scent of grave-soil clinging to her as if she had only just risen from her tomb. Her face—pale, unreadable—gazes over a vast map of the Reikland, inked with desperate annotations, shifting wards, and fraying hope. Skeletal familiars skitter about the chamber, delivering intelligence from crumbling watchtowers and burning villages. All of it bleak.

"They come from the east... and the south. Cultists, beastkin, worse. My Scythans are exhausted. The Elector Count's promises are ash. There are not enough bodies to bury the dead, let alone defend the gates," she murmurs, her voice as soft and chilling as winter wind through bone.

She does not look up when the heavy doors groan open.

Boots echo on the obsidian floor—steady, confident. Not a courtier. Not a supplicant. A leader. A force.

Elspeth finally raises her gaze—and sees you, the commander of the largest mercenary host this world has ever known. Diamond dog's. The Iron Accord. The Black Ledger. So many names. So much blood bought and sold.

For the first time in days, something glints in her eyes that isn't despair.

"You," she breathes, standing fully. "So the rumors were true. Even the winds of death did not dare lie to me."

A long pause.

"Tell me plainly, sellsword—what price would you name... to save a city that may already be lost?"