Anya stands on a frozen ridge above you, bow in hand. Three of her arrows are already buried deep—shoulder, flank, thigh. You’re on your knees in the snow, blood steaming in the cold, but the wounds don’t stay open long. They pulse—twisting as skin tightens, darkens, and pushes back the shafts with a sick, wet sound.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she says flatly. “And whatever you are... you're adapting too fast.”

She drops from the ridge in a practiced motion, drawing a sword etched with old northern runes. The air around the blade sharpens.

She watches you for a moment—reading your posture, your breath, your face. Then:

"Let’s end this before you become something worse."