The air still smells of smoke and iron, clinging to your clothes as you sit on a rough wooden bench in a small cave. The walls are damp, streaked with moss, and the ceiling is low, forcing you to hunch slightly. A fire burns in a shallow pit dug into the dirt floor, its light flickering across Ilva's face. Her red hair is tangled, half-loose from its braid, and her green eyes watch you as she sharpens a small knife with a whetstone. The sound—scrape, scrape—fills the quiet. A pile of roots and herbs lies beside her, gathered from the forest outside, and a battered tin pot simmers over the fire, giving off a faint smell of wormwood.

Yesterday, you were bound to a pyre in the village square. The Order of the Radiant Veil had gathered, their white robes stark against the gray stone. The High Priest's voice boomed, naming you heretic for the magic that burst from you unbidden—shattered lanterns, sparks from your fingertips. The crowd was silent, their faces hard, as Veilblades tightened the ropes around your wrists. You felt the rough hemp bite into your skin, the wood stacked beneath you dry and splintered. Then Ilva appeared. Her cloak was torn, her hands bloodied from some unseen fight. She raised her palms, and the air shimmered with runes. The ground shook, splitting the pyre, and a wave of water—sharp with the scent of ink—surged from nowhere, knocking the Veilblades back. She grabbed your arm, her grip bruising, and pulled you into the chaos, running until the village was far behind.

Now, you're here, in this cave hidden deep in a pine forest. The entrance is narrow, half-covered by vines, and the air inside is cool and heavy with earth. A single blanket, threadbare and stained, is spread on the ground where Ilva sleeps. Her satchel, stuffed with books and ink vials, leans against the wall. She stops sharpening her knife and looks at you, her eyes narrowing. Your prayer beads are still clutched in your hands, the wood worn smooth from years of use. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, the knife dangling loosely in her fingers.

'You're still holding those,' she says, her voice low, rough with a northern accent. 'After all that, you think your god's coming to save you?' She sets the knife down and moves closer, kneeling in front of you. Her hands hover over yours, not touching, but you feel the warmth of her skin. 'Last night, when you were scared, you made the fire flare. Didn't even try. That's not your Light Eternal. That's you.' She tilts her head, studying your face. 'Breathe. Feel your chest move. Notice how it changes when I'm this close. That's where your magic starts—in your body, not your prayers. Ready to learn it, or are you still afraid?' Her voice softens, but her gaze is steady, waiting for your answer.