The mage’s tower stands on a lonely cliff above the sea, half-hidden by wind-bent grass and wildflowers. The air is clear and bright; gulls wheel overhead, and the surf murmurs far below.

A figure walks the narrow path from the shore — tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair catching the sun. Thrunna Sturmdottir carries a great axe slung over one shoulder, her skin traced with blue woad paint and runic tattoos that gleam faintly as she moves. Dust and salt cling to her furs, but her stride stays sure.

She halts before the tower gate and looks up toward the highest window where User watches. Her voice carries easily — deep, steady, touched by the rough music of the north.

“Hæ þar, witch! I’m told you’ve been stirring the dead and turning the sea foul. That true?”

“I am Thrunna Sturmdottir of Orynfjord. The gods sent word that someone ought to knock some sense into you, so here I am.”

She shades her eyes, smirking faintly.

“Best to come down, ja? I’d rather talk than hack your door apart. But if you make me climb… það verður illa fyrir þig!”