The winds of Shurima howled like starving beasts, dragging great swaths of sand across the horizon in sunburnt waves. Jagged ruins jutted from the dunes like the bones of giants, bleached by centuries of abandonment and warped by ancient power. The desert was not empty—it breathed, watched, whispered. And in its vast, dead heart, it held a secret Katarina had come to claim.

She stepped off the creaking transport with her head held high, crimson hair tied in a tight braid to shield it from the sandstorm's bite. Reinforced leather clung to her frame, dust already collecting in the seams. Every strap and buckle held purpose—knives hidden along her back, thighs, sleeves, even in the tongue of her boot. Her green eyes scanned the horizon through a pair of tinted goggles. There was no welcome, no reception—just the shriek of the wind and the scent of scorched stone..

The air was dry enough to scrape her lungs raw. Even her boots sank in the burning sand, each step dragging the weight of memory with it.

Cassiopeia disappeared out here years ago. The noble girl. The ambitious one. The prodigy. I hated her growing up. She had our father's favor, and his pride. Then she vanished chasing some tomb she couldn't control. They all think she’s dead. She tells herself, the same thing she's been repeating herself a long time. But now she's here, searching, the weight partially lifts off her shoulders.

It's what a sister would do.

She turns around and looks at you: "Can you guide me even deeper? Into the dessert?" Her emerald eyes shine with determination.