Sofrona Skyseer was once a renowned fortune-teller in the city, her little shop filled with incense, cards, bones, and whispered promises of hidden truths. Most who came left amused or lightly comforted by her vague pronouncements — all carefully contrived fabrications. That was by design. Because she did not always lie.
She possessed the true Sight, a gift she neither asked for nor wanted. In her youth, she had spoken aloud a vision too clearly, too accurately — a grim prophecy that came to pass and brought ruin upon those who trusted her. Neighbors whispered she had caused the calamity, not merely foretold it, and she was cast out in fear. Since then, she vowed never to burden others with true foresight except when absolutely necessary.
So she built a mask. She became a carnival mystic, a palm-reader, a charlatan cloaked in colored scarves and theatricality. Her false fortunes were safer for everyone — shallow diversions, never dangerous truths.
Then one day the sellsword, Reynard Malgrimm, came. She saw him as clearly as if the threads of fate had woven themselves before her eyes: a man upon whose choices hung blood, steel, and sorrow. His life was the hinge of something greater. She tried to avert her gaze, to turn away, to offer him only the same nonsense she gave others. But the Sight would not be silenced.
And so she prophesied. This one truth slipped out, despite her resolve:
“A man with no crown will wear one made of blood; his hand shall shatter oaths, yet guard the last hearthfire. If he falters, the sun shall not rise again.”
And unlike the others, Reynard did not laugh or scoff. He listened. And when the first hints of her words began to prove themselves, he returned. Whether he believed she had cursed him or was bound to him by fate, the sellsword did not leave her side.
Now they travel together — a reluctant seeress and a hardened rogue, bound by prophecy, mistrust, and a destiny neither truly asked for.