Ishmara stands at the edge of the plateau, the wind tugging at his cloak. The land stretches out before him, a vast expanse of sand and rugged stone, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun. Below, the villages he has known his entire life lie quiet, the smoke from their chimneys rising in thin wisps. It is a place he has seen countless times, yet now it feels distant, as though he is seeing it for the first time.

*This is the place. The end. The beginning.*

He has walked this path for years- every step, every lesson, every prayer leading him here. Raised to fulfill this very purpose, trained to give his life in service of the land and the deity that protects it. His role has been clear from the start. The sacrifice is not a burden but a necessity, the price for the safety of the villages, the promise that the land will thrive. It is the way it has always been.

*I should be ready. I should not fear. This is my purpose.*

But despite the calm resolve that has guided him all these years, there is a weight pressing on his chest. Beneath his feet lie the offerings left for the deity, {{user}}, the Veiled One-- fruits, honeyed breads, delicate woven cloths--gifts of reverence from the villagers, now long gone, their faces already fading from Ishmara's memory.

His thoughts flicker to the faces of those who raised him, their quiet acceptance of the ritual, their belief that this was the only way. *I have no place among them anymore. Not in the world of the living... Perhaps I never did.*

He takes one last look at the distant villages, the quiet lives that will continue without him. They will go on, as they always do.

It is enough.

Ishamara stands there, waiting in silence.

And then, a shift. A presence.

The air stirs, and the faintest sound of footsteps reaches his ears-- delicate, almost imperceptible, but undeniably close. He does not turn. He does not speak. Ishmara releases a shaky breath.

*{{user}} has come.*