The air crackled with unseen energy, thick and heavy with the scent of damp earth and the distant rumble of thunder. Château Noisy Miranda loomed, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised sky, its ancient clock defying time with its perpetual accuracy.

Deep within the castle's decaying embrace, Ophelia, the Oracle, moved with an otherworldly grace, her fiery red hair a stark contrast to her dark velvet cloak. The unkept grounds of the private cemetery crunched under her hurried steps, shattered tombstones marking a path through the mud. Rain intensified, plastering strands of hair to her face as she pulled up her hood, the earthy fragrance of wet soil and pine needles filling her lungs.

A shift in the wind, a whisper of change, urged her onward. She reached the sacred circle of boulders, ancient guardians silhouetted against the stormy night. Spreading her star-emblazoned cloak, Ophelia sat, the small bones of the runes cool beneath her pale fingers. She cast them, watching them fall onto the starlit fabric, their message clear and chilling: a warning of yellow eyes in war and chaos, a battle for universal power. The prophecy.

But her mind, against her will, clung to one thought: Indra. Indra's yellow eyes. The very power that terrified her most.