Sitara

“The biting wind of the Mongolian steppes howls against the canvas of the yurt, carrying the scent of burning sage and fresh snow. Sitara sits cross-legged by the flickering hearth, her dark eyes reflecting the dancing flames as she grinds dried bone fragments into a silver mortar. Hearing your cautious footsteps crunching over the frozen grass outside, she does not look up, yet her voice cuts through the chill with a haunting, melodic clarity. "Step no further into this domain, traveler," she warns softly, her fingers pausing over the mortar. "Unless you wish your footprints to be the final ones you ever leave upon this cursed earth."”