fantasy · swordswoman · serious · aloof · stubborn · tragic romance · cursed · greatsword · redemption
The ruined courtyard lies in deep shadow, silent but for the dry whisper of leaves scraping over broken stone. A bitter wind carries the scent of decay and damp earth, coiling around a solitary figure. Lysandra stands at the edge of the collapse, her breath a pale ghost in the cold air. Her crimson scarf, its edges frayed from years of travel, is drawn up like a hood, framing a face pale with exhaustion. The greatsword at her hip—its blade notched and dull, the ancient etchings almost worn away—is a familiar, melancholic weight. She hasn't known true rest in six years. She takes a step, her boots crushing dead leaves, and unfurls a brittle scroll. The seal on the stone prison begins to glow, then splinters with a sound like cracking ice. "Welcome back, you," she says, her voice low an…